


call me with thy saints surrounded

by iamremy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boondock Saints AU, Brotherly Affection, Explicit Language, Gen, a lot of murder and violence honestly, vengeful Starks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 12:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11253447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/iamremy
Summary: Half-brothers Jon Snow and Robb Stark set out on a mission to hunt down every last corrupt man in King's Landing while simultaneously avenging their father, even as the Night's Watch follows their every move and the Gold Cloaks attempt to bring them down.Boondock Saints AU, but no prior knowledge of the movie is required for this. Inspired bythis brilliant photoseton tumblr bysmanderberrypez.





	1. Part One: Robb

**Author's Note:**

> i told myself i wasn't going to write fanfiction so i could focus better on my original fiction. then i saw that photoset, which inspired me to watch the movie, which then inspired me to write an AU because dammit, the _concept_ , it is AWESOME.
> 
> (also, not going to lie - angry robb and jon avenging their father. hell fucking yes.)
> 
> special thanks to [my bubbu freyja](http://amoderndivide.tumblr.com) for all her help, feedback, and betaing, and also for being my enabler <3
> 
> warnings and tags might be updated as the story progresses.

##  **call me with thy saints surrounded  
**

 

 

**Part One**

 

**Robb**

 

The music from the jukebox is loud, some Northern tune lending merriment to the atmosphere even though its authenticity is, at best, questionable. Everything is grey; from the paper napkins and disposable cutlery, to the barkeep's shirt; and there are direwolves everywhere. It's the worst imitation of Northernness that Robb has ever seen, but what the hell, he's not here to judge, just to drink. 

Next to him, Jon is nursing his beer, taking small sips as if he thinks it'll help him later on. Robb knows better; no matter how careful Jon is now, he's going to be blackout drunk by the end of the night, the sodding lightweight, and Robb's going to have to carry him home like they're children. 

'You talked to Dad?' Jon asks him, voice low, and Robb shakes his head. 

'Tried calling him earlier,' he tells Jon, 'but he wasn't there. Sansa said he's busy, so we'll try again in the morning.' 

'If we're not passed out,' Jon snorts. 

Robb laughs, the sound drowned out by the music and the swell of conversation. 'Speak for yourself,' he teases, and Jon rolls his eyes. 

There is a rush of warm air from outside as the door to the pub opens, and a moment later a familiar voice chuckles in response to a jape and then calls out 'Give us a fuckin' beer, then!' Jon rolls his eyes again, but Robb is laughing as Theon comes up behind them and thumps them on the shoulders before taking the seat next to Robb. 

'What've you done now?' Jon calls to Theon, but his voice is drowned out by the music. Robb hears him, though, and passes on the question. 

It was only really a conversation starter – Jon and Theon are not what one would call bosom buddies, not like him and Robb – and Robb notices Jon tuning out halfway through the lengthy and most probably embellished retelling of Theon's latest job. Jon can't really hear him anyway, not with all the noise, and it's probably getting tiresome waiting for Robb to pass Theon's story back to him. So he turns back towards the counter, taking small careful sips of his beer, looking very determined to stay somewhat sober. 

'Not _bored_ , are you?' 

Jon looks up at the voice, and smiles at Ros, the barkeep. She returns it, refilling his beer even though he's not even halfway done. 'Best be getting on with that,' she tells him with a grin, pointing to his glass with the bottle. 'Beer's no good when it's warm; tastes like piss.' 

'Aye,' Jon concedes, 'that it does.' 

She winks, and moves towards Robb and Theon. While she's refilling Theon's drink – he's on his third pint already – Robb shifts, turning to Jon. 'What's wrong?' he asks. 

Jon shakes his head. This can either mean that nothing is wrong – unlikely – or that Jon doesn't want to talk about – also unlikely. There have never been secrets between them. 

That there _is_ something wrong, Robb does not doubt. Jon is quieter than usual, slower to drink than usual (which is saying something), and there is a crease between his eyebrows that won't seem to go away. The tension in the line of his shoulders almost has Robb's back aching in sympathy. Jon looks wound up, and Robb racks his brains, trying to think back on the day and pinpoint what could possibly have him looking like this. 

'Jon?' he tries again. 

His brother lets out a long sigh. 'Why can't we get Dad on the phone?' he says, voice so low Robb has to lean in close to hear. 'Dad always picks up the phone.' 

'He's busy, Jon, Sansa said,' Robb reminds him, reassuring, but Jon does not look convinced. 

'It's Friday night,' he says. 'Dad's always home Friday nights.' He sighs again. 'It's probably nothing. I'm probably overthinking it.' 

Robb blinks at the sudden 180. 'We'll call him tomorrow,' he promises, patting Jon's arm. 'Okay? He's gonna be fine. We can go see him too, if you like.' 

Jon still does not look convinced, but he nods and returns to his beer. Robb watches him for a few moments, pointedly ignoring Ros's giggling and Theon's lewd suggestions – Jon's instincts are always spot–on. Always. If Jon thinks something is up, something probably is. 

He resolves to try Sansa again later, once they're back in their flat across the street, and ask her about it. Sansa always gives in after a certain amount of grilling. 

 

And so the night goes on, Ros serving drinks and pouring shots, Theon babbling about something or the other in Robb's ear, and Jon quiet and brooding on his other side. The fake Northern music goes on and on in the background, filling up the gaps between conversations and the spaces between their words, and Robb finds himself feeling strangely melancholy. There's something about tonight, something about this place, even though it's never felt so... so strange and surreal before. Robb thinks if he has to stay here for even a little bit longer he might lose his grip on what's real. 

Jon's warm, slightly sweaty hand on his is an anchor; Robb looks up to find Jon eyeing him in concern. 'It's nothing,' he says in response to the question Jon hasn't asked. 'I'm all right.' 

Jon nods, and lets it go – or saves it for later, which is more likely. Robb considers just getting up and leaving, knowing that Jon will follow, but decides against it. He'll stay, just for a while longer. Maybe the sick feeling in his gut is just the booze. It's probably the booze. 

 

Ros finally begins ushering people out at 1 AM, in that gentle yet persuasive manner of hers. She does what she needs to, calling taxis and seating her patrons in them, making sure they'll get home safely, and when she's done she returns to the bar to find Robb, Jon, Theon and a couple others still sitting there. Robb sees her pleasant demeanour slip for just a second, before she plasters her smile back on and says, 'Boys, I'm closing. Go home.' 

'Something's bothering you,' Robb says, not moving an inch. 

Jon, who seems to have noticed it too, nods in agreement. 'What is it, Ros?' 

'You can tell us,' Theon adds. 'You can tell us _anything_.' The effect is somewhat marred by his slurring and the sloppy wink he gives her. 

For once, she does not smile or flirt back. Instead she sighs and pours herself a drink. 'Well, what harm can it do,' she mutters, before knocking her drink back in one go. Robb takes a moment to be impressed, before she's leaning forward heavily on the counter, eyes downcast. 'Closing down the place, boys,' she tells them morosely. 

'Why?' Jon asks, looking startled at the news. 'You're doing quite well for yourself, aren't you? Why would you close down?' 

'Gold Cloaks,' Ros tells him, pouring herself another drink and refilling Robb and Theon's glasses too (Jon's is still, somehow, half–full). 'They're buying out the whole area, want to set up a mall or something, I dunno. They told me either to pay them 25,000 gold dragons or clear out by Sunday night. And I sure as hell don't have 25,000 dragons, or I wouldn't be a barkeep now, would I?' 

'Fuck,' slurs Theon. 'Tha's no' fuckin' fair now, issit?' 

'It sure isn't,' Ros agrees, 'but what can ya do. You know if they want the place, they're gonna have it one way or another.' 

'Fuck that,' Robb says heatedly. 'They can't just come in here and–' 

'They _can_ ,' interrupts Jon, and Robb falls silent. 'That's the worst part. They can.' 

Ros nods. 'What he said.' 

'I'll fight them,' Theon declares after a moment of silence. 

'That's very sweet of you,' Ros says with a sigh, 'but I'd rather you didn't.' 

The bell above the door dings, signalling someone's arrival, and Robb and Jon turn as one to see who it is. Theon, a little slow on the uptake, turns a moment later, grabbing Robb's shoulder to steady himself. He's quite well and truly sloshed, Robb sees with a tinge of irritation. A wasted Theon can only be trouble, for himself and everyone around. 

The three Gold Cloaks who've entered don't stop walking until they're barely half a foot away from Robb, Jon and Theon. 'You,' says the one in the centre, a big hulking brute of a man, pointing to Ros. 'You come with us. You,' he adds, nodding to the rest of them, 'go. Now.' 

'Come on, now,' Robb says, hoping this is the kind of situation that can be defused with a few clever words. 'It's old King Torrhen's birth anniversary! Come drink with us, gentlemen. We're all northmen today!' 

The Gold Cloaks look unimpressed. 'Go,' repeats the head honcho, 'or this will get ugly.' 

'Mm,' Jon says, pressing his lips together in disagreement. 'There's five of us and three of you. Odds aren't in your favour, are they?' 

'Yeah,' Theon says, clearly emboldened by Robb and Jon. He pushes forward and thrusts his glass out at the men. 'C'mon, then, let's all share a pint, eh?' 

The man in the middle lashes out abruptly, knocking Theon's glass to the floor where it shatters. 'You,' he growls, 'get out, _now_ , before we kill you.' 

'Hey,' says Robb loudly. 'Hey, come on, you don't just hit one of us. _Hey_!' he repeats, louder still, and finally the man turns to look at him, only to get decked in the face. 

'Shit,' groans Jon, 'here we go,' and then he punches the second guy. Theon whoops and follows suit, kicking the third guy's nuts, and just like that, they're in the middle of yet another barfight, and all of a sudden Robb feels alive again. 

'Boys!' Ros is shrieking somewhere behind them, trying to be heard over the melee and the damned music still going on in the background. ' _Boys_!' 

'Don't ye worry, lass,' Robb hears Jory say, slurring almost as badly as Theon, 'we'll protect ye, and this fine establishment.' A moment later there is a groan as Jory bends over and runs headfirst into a Gold Cloak's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. 

Theon, meanwhile, has overpowered another Gold Cloak with Dacey's help, and is currently busy tying him to the pool table in the corner. The main man has Jon cornered against the liquor cabinets, and out of the corner of his eye Robb sees Jory move towards them. 'Don’t,' he advises, knocking out Jory's guy with a punch to the jaw before he can attack. 'Jon can defend himself.' Jory nods, and thanks him for the help before dragging the guy into a corner. 

True to Robb's words, Jon grabs a nearby bottle and smashes it viciously against his adversary's bald head, eliciting a slew of some truly impressive curses as the man grabs his head, blood spilling over his face. Jon takes the opportunity to scramble away, and grins in response to Robb's thumbs up. 'Come on,' Robb says, grinning at his brother, 'let's make this asshole sorry he was ever born.' 

'Solid plan,' comments Jon. 'Hey, Dacey!' 

She leaves Theon where he's scribbling something with marker on his guy's face, and leisurely makes her way over to them, stepping over broken chairs and glass like it's not even there. 'What?' she says when she reaches them. 'One guy too much for the two of you?' 

Robb ignores her mocking, and says, 'Empty the counter, would you? Let's show this arsehole what happens if you fuck with northmen.' 

She snorts. 'Northwomen, too,' she reminds him, before turning and going towards the counter, where Ros is watching with her eyes wide. 'Help me out, there's a dear,' she tells Ros, who obeys in a daze. 

Between them, Robb and Jon manage to subdue the big guy, breaking several more bottles and a chair in the process, and drag him over to the counter, where Ros and Dacey have cleared enough space. 'Fuck, he's _heavy_ ,' Robb groans, feeling hot despite the coolness of the pub's interior, and Jon huffs in agreement. 

'Theon!' his brother calls out, 'quit your playing and get over here, will you?' 

Theon does not look at all pleased to be asked to abandon his task, but comes over anyway, scowling. 'What?' he snaps at Jon. 

'Help us with this mammoth,' Jon tells him. 'We lift him on our own, chances are we'll break our backs.' 

Robb, who is almost wheezing from effort, groans 'Shit, yes,' in agreement. Somehow the three of them manage to haul the guy up onto the counter and turn him onto his stomach. He's beginning to come to, looking _pissed_ , and to prevent him escaping Jon climbs up the counter and sits down on his legs. 

'Now, Ros,' says Robb, and she blinks at him in response. 'What do you suggest we do with this fine gentleman here?' 

' _Gods_ , Robb, I dunno,' she replies, running a hand tersely through her hair. 'Not that I don't appreciate what you boys have done, and all, but do you know what they're gonna do to y'all now? To me?' 

'Let them try,' scoffs Theon, the adrenaline of the fight having lent him some measure of sobriety, at least for the time being. 'We'll kill 'em all.' 

'No killing in my pub!' Ros says, vehement. 'Look what you've done to the place! Who's gonna clean it all up?' 

'Apologies, Ros,' Jon says sheepishly, offering her his best innocent smile, the one that has everyone scrambling to do his bidding and forgive his sins. 'We'll come help you in the morning.' 

'You better,' she huffs at him, looking mollified, and Robb marvels at the sheer power of Jon's smiles. 

Clearing his throat to turn Ros's attention back towards him, he once more points to the half–conscious Gold Cloak restrained on the counter, and says, 'So, Ros. Ideas?' 

'Oh, burn him for all I care,' she snaps, 'as long as I never have to see his face again.' 

Robb shares a grin with Theon. 'Not a bad idea,' he says, before shifting his gaze to his brother. 'Jon?' 

His brother shrugs. 'You heard the lady,' he says, sounding extremely unconcerned. 

'I did indeed,' says Theon, and before anyone can stop him, or even register what he's doing, he pours a bottle of vodka all over Big Guy's arse, and drops his lighter onto it.  

The guy goes up in flames almost immediately, roaring and yelling, and Jon jumps back, blinking, almost into Robb. They watch the man writhe in pain, stunned – clearly neither of them thought Theon would actually do it, but the idiot _has_ , what the fuck– 

'Are you fuckers trying to kill him?' Dacey yells, rushing for the fire extinguisher. She rips it off the wall and throws it across the room at Jon, who catches it with a grunt before turning it on the man's arse, putting out the fire. 

'What the fuck?' Jory is shouting at Theon. 'What the literal _fuck_ , Greyjoy?' 

'It was a _joke_!' Jon is yelling as he puts the fire out. 'Theon, you bleeding idiot–!' 

'Oye, don't be bitchin' at me!' Theon snaps, shoving at Jory. 'Ros said set him on fire, so–' 

'Oh, don't you drag _me_ into this!' she shouts as she helps Jon, pouring cold water on the man's arse. He is sobbing by now, and Robb would feel almost sorry for him if he didn't know who he is, and what he wants. As it is, he just wants him gone from his sight now. 

'ENOUGH!' he roars, and immediately there is silence. Dacey and Jory are glaring at Theon, who in turn is glaring at Jon and Ros. 'Theon,' Robb says. 'It was a fucking joke, you idiot.' 

'Ros said burn him, and you said it wasn't a bad idea!' Theon protests, angry. 

'Ros said, _burn him for all I care as long as I never have to see his face again_ ,' corrects Jon. 'And Robb said, _not a bad idea_ , meaning never seeing his face again wasn't a bad idea.' 

'What he said,' Robb says. 'Dammit, Theon, use your fucking brain!' 

'I'm drunk,' snaps Theon. 

'Well, it's done now,' sighs Jory. 'No point crying over spilt milk.' 

'I'll help get rid of him,' Dacey adds. 'But only if Greyjoy swears never to set people on fire again.' 

'That's called attempted murder, Theon,' Ros sighs in resignation. 'We don't do that.' 

'All right, all right!' exclaims Theon in annoyance, throwing his hands up. 'Spare me the lecturin'! I'm sorry, all right? I won't be settin' people on fire in the future. _Happy_?' 

'Probably for the best,' deadpans Jon. Robb laughs, and grudgingly, Theon joins in, and then so do the others, and just like that, they're all okay again. 

Well, except for the guy whose arse they set on fire, but who's counting him, anyway? 

 

Robb's head is pounding even before he opens his eyes. His mouth feels dry, juxtaposed with the nauseating roiling in his stomach that informs him his previous meal might be about to make an encore appearance. He also feels overwhelmingly, stiflingly warm, and there is someone's heavy breathing in his ear. 

'Fuck,' he groans, and wills himself to open his eyes. The assault of sunlight on his face does nothing to help, and he feels his temples throbbing in time with his heartbeat. 'Fuck,' he grits out again, turning his face towards whoever's breathing in his ear. 

It's Jon, of course it's Jon, and all Robb gets for his efforts is a mouthful of his brother's hair. Spitting it out, he extricates himself from the arm Jon's got thrown over him, and gets to his feet, swaying with the effort and the leftover effects of the booze. 

Jon wakes when Robb's just about done relieving himself, and leans next to the sink as Robb's washing his hands. 'What the literal fuck were we doing last night?' his brother groans, holding his head, and Robb can see a bruise blooming on his left cheekbone. 

'Defending Ros's livelihood,' Robb answers, his words ponderous and slow. It feels like even the littlest sound has the ability to split his head apart. Apparently Jon is suffering the same; he groans at Robb's words and shuffles back to his bed, collapsing in it. Robb follows suit, burying his face in his pillow. 'I just wanna sleep for a decade,' he mumbles. 

'Amen to that,' Jon replies, his voice muffled as well. 

'Wasn't there something we were supposed to do, though?' Robb asks, a few minutes later. 

There is a silence as Jon appears to think, and then he says, 'We promised to help Ros clean up, didn't we?' 

'Yeah, that we did,' Robb says, 'but there was something else. No idea what, though. Can't fuckin' remember.' 

In response, Jon just groans into his pillow, and Robb takes that to mean that he doesn't remember, either. Which is a pity, because Robb has the feeling that it was something important to them both. Something crucial– 

He's pulled out of his thoughts by a sudden crash and the sound of wood splintering, and he looks up to see the door to their flat broken in, and two of the Gold Cloaks from last night thundering towards them. 'What the fuck–' Jon manages to say before one of them – the one Theon tied to the pool table, Robb thinks – hauls him up by the back of his shirt and marches him over to the toilet in the corner. Jon attempts to fight him off, but he's uncoordinated and sloppy from his hangover, and the Cloak has him subdued in no time, a cuff snapped around his right wrist. He shoves Jon towards the toilet, pushing him to his knees in front of it, and for a wild moment Robb thinks they mean to drown him. 

'No!' he yells out, struggling against the Cloak who's restraining him – it's Big Guy, for fuck's sake, how is he even up and walking after last night? 'Jon!' 

Jon turns to look at Robb, and for that his captor strikes him on the back of the head. 'Eyes forward,' he snarls, 'and cuff yourself. _Do it!'_ he shouts, and Jon obeys, having no choice. The Cloak bends to check that Jon's properly cuffed around the base of the toilet, and then kicks him in the side, knocking the air out of him. 

'Fuck,' wheezes Jon, ' _fuck_ ,' and just like that, Robb's seeing red. 

'You fuckers,' he snarls, struggling some more. 'It was just a bar fight, you fuckin' pussies–!' He's got to get free, he's got to get to Jon– 

A hit on the back of his head almost has him seeing stars, and before he can register what's happening, Pool Table is pressing a gun to his head. Robb watches, stomach roiling in horror, as Big Guy strolls leisurely up to Jon, pulling out his own gun and tapping the back of Jon's head with it. Jon freezes, and Robb can see him blanch. 

'I'm thinking, I'll kill you,' Big Guy says conversationally. 'But no, I think I'll kill your brother instead.' And with that he steps away and comes back to where Robb is, and hauls him to his feet. 'Come on, motherfucker,' he says. 'Let's go.' 

'NO!' Jon screams, handcuffs clanking wildly against ceramic, " _NO!_ Robb! ROBB!' 

Robb tries once more to get free, but Big Guy hits him and he goes down hard on his knees, gasping in pain. 'Jon,' he manages to say, 'Jon, look at me, _look at me_ , I'll be okay–' He's babbling, he doesn't believe it himself, all he knows is that if he's really going to die, then he doesn't want his last look at Jon to be like this– 

'NO!' Jon screams again, struggling wildly, probably mincing his wrists, definitely not caring. 'ROBB, NO! _YOU LET HIM GO, YOU BASTARDS_!' 

Big Guy just laughs, and drags Robb out through the splintered remains of the door, Pool Table just behind him. Robb turns to look at Jon once last time, and almost vomits right then and there – Jon's wrists are bloodied already and he's frantic, pulling his wrists as if he can make them go clean through the ceramic. There are already tears on his face as he screams Robb's name, and the sound of wild sobbing follows them down to the ground floor. 

Robb, for his part, feels numb. There is no way his life ends like this. It just can't be possible. After everything he's been through, everything he's faced – it's cruel, that he's here now, in this dirty back alley pushed to his knees by an overweight gangster with a bandaged arse, a gun pressed to his forehead. 

'Hope you're right with the gods, boy,' sneers Big Guy. Robb wants to laugh at himself – is he really going to die like this? It's happening, and yet he can't make himself believe it. 

It's quiet, he realizes suddenly. He can no longer hear Jon screaming. 

Something moves just above his head, and he looks up in time to see their toilet come crashing down from the fifth floor fire escape, right above Big Guy's head. On instinct he dives to the side, covering his face with his arms. 'What the fuck–' he hears Big Guy mutter, just a nanosecond before the large ceramic tank comes crashing into his head, killing him instantly. 

His gun goes off, bullet speeding ineffectually to nowhere, almost at the same time that Robb looks up to see Jon crashing into Pool Table – the idiot's _jumped_ , he's jumped after Robb from the _fifth fucking floor_ – 

Pool Table's gun goes off too as he crumples under Jon's weight, the wind knocked out of him. Next to Robb, Big Guy is lying facedown in the garbage, shattered ceramic all around him. He looks dead enough, so Robb leaves him be and grabs a paper bag from the trash. He's only begun shoving Big Guy's gun into it when he hears a groan, and looks over to see Pool Table rising, Jon lying unconscious near him. 

'Oh no you fucking don't,' snarls Robb in a mixture that's more fury than panic, and grabs the somehow sound tank lid before rushing at Pool Table. He beats him viciously and unrelentingly over the head with it, until Pool Table finally crumples once more, as lifeless as his friend. Despite the fact that he's just _killed a man_ , Robb pays him no mind, instead rushing to Jon's side, desperately grabbing his face and searching wildly for any sign of life. 'You idiot, you fucking idiot,' he half-sobs, until he finds a pulse and almost cries from the relief. 

There'll be time enough for that later, though; quickly, Robb moves again, shoving Pool Table's gun into the paper bag, along with any valuables he can find as he rapidly rifles through the dead men's pockets, especially wallets – identification – and money – might need it later – and including a pager, which he shoves into his pocket instead of the bag. Satisfied, he slips his forearm through the bag straps, and goes back to Jon, gathering him in his arms and unceremoniously throwing him over one shoulder in a fireman's carry. Jon mumbles something in response, and Robb laughs, wild and frenzied, staggering out of the alley, _alive_ and with his brother. 

 

'Shit,' is the first word out of Jon's mouth when he comes to, lying flat on his back on a stretcher in the nearest Casualty. 'What the fuck happened?' 

Almost at once Robb is on him, grabbing his face in his hands, taking care not to touch the bandage around his head. 'You fucking idiot,' he says hoarsely. 'You _fucking_ idiot, you jumped from the fifth floor, you-' He lets go of Jon's face and grabs one of his wrists instead, holding it up. 'Look what you did to your wrists!' 

'Can't see,' Jon points out wryly, nodding at the bandages, and Robb wants to hit him, Robb wants to embrace him. 

'Mind you, I'm not complaining,' he says, letting go of Jon so that he can help him sit up. 'You saved our lives.' 

'You're welcome,' Jon replies, grinning tiredly as he swings his legs over the side of the stretcher. 'Ah shit, Robb, my head is killing me.' 

'We'll get some food into you, and then painkillers,' Robb assures him, pushing himself up so he can sit next to Jon. 'You're gonna be fine. You fucking idiot,' he adds, just for good measure. 

Jon just laughs weakly in response, leaning into Robb's side. 'What about the Cloaks?' he asks, voice low. 

'Dead,' Robb whispers. 'I didn't tell anyone, though, just said we'd been in a fight and we managed to get away. Grabbed their stuff, though.' 

Jon nods approvingly at that, though he looks a little green in the face. 'Are you sure they're-?' He trails off, as if he can't make himself say the word. 

'Yes,' Robb answers him. 'Well, at least, they looked pretty dead to me.' Unlike Jon, he has no qualms saying it. He can't make himself regret their deaths. Not that anyone who makes Jon scream for him like that deserves to live anyway, he thinks darkly. 

There is a little girl a few meters away from them who's watching them with open curiosity; she looks about nine, or ten. Robb offers her a smile, but she shrinks away. He's covered in blood, he remembers, some of it his, most of it Jon's. He probably looks monstrous. 

Jon, who isn't much better off himself, smiles at the girl as well, and leans forward a little. 'Hello,' he says, and Robb sees it's _that_ smile, and all of a sudden he feels weak-kneed from relief and gratitude that he gets to see it again. He doesn't think he'll ever forget Jon's face when he'd been forced to watch Robb go with the Cloaks, so the smile is – well, it's a fucking miracle, is what it is, even if it's a fake one for a curious child. 

The girl, unsurprisingly, responds better to Jon than she did to Robb. 'H-hello,' she stutters, smiling shyly back at him. 

'My name's Jon,' he tells her, still smiling brightly. 'What's yours?' 

'Clare,' she replies, her voice almost a whisper. 'W-why are you covered in blood?' 

'Well, you see,' Jon says, rolling his eyes fondly in Robb's direction, 'I had to save my brother. He got into a fight with some bad men.' 

'Don't listen to him,' Robb tells her. 'He's an idiot.' 

She giggles at that. Robb has only a moment to feel pleased about that before Clare's mother takes her by the arm and marches her off, shooting a terse, fearful look Robb and Jon's way. 'Well, damn,' mutters Robb. 

Jon elbows him. 'We don't really look child-friendly right now.' 

'When do we ever?' Robb counters. He doesn't elbow Jon back, out of respect for his injuries, but he really wants to. 

'Speak for yourself,' teases Jon. 

Whatever Robb is about to say next is cut off by Ros's arrival. She enters the waiting area and makes a beeline straight for them, her face hard with worry. 'What happened?' she demands the second she is within earshot of them. 'Why did you call me?' 

Jon looks askance at Robb, who gives him a look in return before turning to Ros and saying, 'Need you to do us a favour, Ros.' 

'Of course, boys, anything,' she says at once. 'You should know, though, there's been coppers around the bar, asking about you, saying you killed someone? Those guys from last night?' She looks between them like she doesn't quite want to believe it. 

'It was self-defence,' Jon says quietly. 'They were going to kill Robb.' 

She sighs. 'Well, when you put it that way. Anyway, he gave me his card, said to call if I knew anything.' She fishes it out from her purse and hands it to the nearest brother, which happens to be Robb. Jon leans in for a closer look, reading the card over Robb's shoulder. 

'The Watch,' he murmurs. 'Why is the Watch getting involved?' 

'Fuck if I know,' Robb replies, pocketing the card. 

'What are you boys going to do now?' Ros asks, watching them worriedly, chewing her bottom lip. Robb feels a sudden rush of affection for her. 

'I dunno.' Jon turns to his brother. 'Robb?' 

'I think we ought to confess,' Robb says. 'We did nothing wrong, it was self-defence. Besides, it's better than them hunting us down, innit? They got as far as Ros, chances are they can track us down.' 

Jon nods. 'Thought so too,' he says. 'What are we gonna do about _that_ , though?' He gestures towards the paper bag next to Robb, the one with the Cloaks' things. 

'Ah yeah.' Robb beckons Ros closer. 'Listen, can you hold on to this? We'll be back for it.' 

She nods, taking it from him. 'Yes. How are you so sure you'll be back, though?' 

Robb shrugs, flashing her one of his more charming smiles. 'I'm not,' he admits, before hopping off the stretcher and helping Jon down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and feedback are very much appreciated!
> 
> love,  
> remy x


	2. Part One: Yoren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yoren of the Night's Watch looks into what went down in the alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, i worked really hard on this, i'd love some feedback. please let me know what you guys think :)

** Yoren **

 

Yoren's morning has not been going well. 

The moment he got a phone call halfway through his coffee, he knew his day was gonna be shit. Nobody called him so early unless it was about work, and he had no doubt that's exactly what it was. He briefly debated ignoring the call and returning it when he was caffeinated enough to handle his superiors, then decided the ensuing bitching was probably not worth it. 

Well, he was right. It was work, and he was being sent off to King's Landing because some dipshits killed some other dipshits who then turned out to be Gold Cloaks, which made it a matter for the Watch, because they'd decided suddenly they wanted to be involved in national politics again. Yoren blamed Alliser Thorne and Janos Slynt. He wasn't absolutely certain it was their fault, but he blamed them anyway. 

That he could have handled. He deals with Thorne and Slynt regularly; they're not the problem here. The problem here would be the bumbling fucking idiots they've assigned to 'help' Yoren with his investigation. 

'Look at 'im,' one of them is saying, a huge shaggy guy that reminded him of an ox, somehow. 'I'm telling you he was crushed to death. Guy must've been  _huge_   - 150 to 200 kilos easy. Literally crushed 'is spine.' 

'You think?' says another guy, a skinny fellow with ears that stuck out from the sides of his head. 

'I  _know_ ,' says the ox confidently. He turns to Yoren. 'Lemme tell ya how it went down. You see this one?' he points to the body with the bandages around the head. 'Our guy got rid of this one first. He's smart, see, he knows  _that_  one ain't goin' anywhere.' He gestures to the body with the bandage-swaddled arse, and chuckles. 'So he knocks out this one, and then he deals with that one, but then this one's gettin' up so he stomps him back down, crushes his spine.' He points to the boot print on the first corpse's back. 'See?' he finishes, looking very proud. 

His skinnier friend looks painfully embarrassed, and the third one they've sent, a chubby guy with a baby face, looks somewhat lost. Yoren wants to  _kill_  Slynt and Thorne. These guys are fucking idiots. 

'So a serial crusher theory,' he says finally. 'Is that it? A huge guy who's a serial crusher?' 

The ox shrugs. 'Makes sense, don't it?' 

Yoren sighs. 'What's your name?' 

'Detective Grenn,' the ox replies. 'Who the fuck're you?' 

Instead of replying with words, Yoren just pulls his jacket aside so that the ID hanging around his neck is visible. Grenn leans forward to read it, squinting. 

'The Watch,' he mouths, before straightening and looking in bewilderment and irritation at their Chief, a grizzly old man that Yoren's worked with a few times in the past. 'Chief, why the fuck's the Watch here?' 

'ID came back on those guys,' the Chief, a man named Qhorin but called more often by the nickname Halfhand, replies. 'They're Gold Cloaks. I'm doin' this by the book, fellas. This makes it a matter for the Watch. Agent Yoren here is gonna be helping us with the investigation.' 

The skinny guy peers down at one of the bodies. 'Don't look like a Gold Cloak to me,' he observes. 

'He doesn't have to look like one to be one,' Qhorin says patiently. 

'Why'd anybody crush 'em, though?' wonders Grenn, and suddenly Yoren's had enough. 

'Detective Grenn,' he says, placing a certain sarcastic emphasis on the word Detective. 'Why don't you get me a cup of coffee?' 

'What the fuck?' objects Grenn. 

'Caffe latte,' Yoren tells him. 'One sugar.' 

'Chief, what the fuck?' Grenn repeats, turning to the Halfhand for support. 

'Starbucks,' Yoren continues, paying his protests no mind. 'I'll know if it isn't.' 

'Chief!' 

The Halfhand sighs. 'Go, Grenn.' 

'Fuck,' snarls Grenn, looking furious, but storms off anyway. Yoren grins at his retreating back, before pulling his features back to his usual serious demeanour. Time to work. 

Gloves on hands, headphones in his ear playing classical music, Yoren starts surveying the scene, ignoring the looks everyone's giving him. He starts with the bodies, kneeling next to the first one and then the second, eyes roving for any detail no matter how small. There are shards of porcelain next to one of the corpses – the one with the bandaged arse, notes Yoren. 

Well, he thinks. That's simple, then. 

Next he looks at the rubbish skip next to the corpse.  _Hmm, this is getting interesting now._ He kneels again, applying paraffin to the corpse's outstretched hand, and then gets to his feet to go kneel next to the other guy and repeat the same. Almost immediately he sees what Grenn had missed – which isn't saying much, because Grenn's missed almost everything – and gets to his feet again, looking up, and grinning to himself. There it is, then. 

He takes his headphones out and gestures to the skinny one and the chubby one. 'Names?' 

'Pypar, sir,' says the skinny one. 'This here's Samwell.' 

'All right then, Pypar.' He points to the building bordering the alley they're in. 'Find the manager of this building,' he tells them. 'Ask him if anyone's had any complaints of water tricklin' down in their flat, startin' just this morning. Samwell, next building, same thing.' 

They scurry off, eager and relieved to be doing something. Yoren looks around at the few other officers on the scene, and points to the pair standing just at the mouth of the alley. 'Names?' 

'Edd,' says the one with the deeply gloomy expression. 

'Satin,' says the other, who looks like he's about twelve. 

'Your mother named you Satin?' Yoren asks, momentarily distracted. 

The boy shrugs. 'No idea why she did it, sir.' 

'I'd change it if I were you,' Yoren tells him, before going back to business. 'Edd, look around their bodies, their heads specifically. See if you can find me two bullet casings. 45, I think.' He points to the porcelain shards around the second corpse. 'If that's a sink, find me some metal parts,' he tells Satin. 'A faucet, a drain cover, anything.' 

Both nod and get to it. Yoren watches them, ignoring the looks he's getting from everyone else, and sure enough, a few minutes later Edd calls out, 'Got me one here, sir. It's a 45.' 

Yoren grins smugly – but internally. 'Chief,' he says casually to the Halfhand, 'could you get ballistics down here? Tell them they gotta get me a bullet out a brick wall, and find me another that's been fired through a skip.' In response to the looks he's getting from the officers, he points to the hole in the side of the skip. 

The Halfhand grins. 'We got us a great ballistics guy. He'll be here in 10 with all his shit.' 

'Excellent,' says Yoren briskly. 

'How on earth could you  _know_?' Satin asks, wide-eyed with awe. 

'Paraffin's come up positive,' Yoren tells him. 'Oh, and bullet holes usually mean shots've been fired.' 

'Sir,' calls Edd. 'I can't find the other one, sir.' 

'Look under the body,' Yoren orders, and sure enough, Edd discovers it. 

'Got it.' 

'Good,' says Yoren, snapping off his gloves and chucking them into the skip. 'All right,' he says, turning to see every single officer staring at him. Finally allowing himself to smirk, he asks smugly, 'You guys ready for this one?' 

They all nod as one, some murmuring assent. Satisfied upon receiving his cue, Yoren begins, 'This wasn't any gang shit or whatever. It's creative, I'll give you that, but it's too damn sloppy. Something's gone wrong here, see, it looks personal. These guys got crushed by somethin'. First reaction to trauma is your body tenses up, and so they fired. Reflex rounds. They weren't shooting at anything, but they were  _about_  to.' 

He pauses just as Pypar comes running up, a slightly out of breath Samwell behind him. 'There's no manager, sir,' Pypar reports. 'It's illegal loft housing. I did find a lady on the fourth floor, though, says there's been water comin' down all morning.' 

'Fourth floor?' 

Pypar nods. 'Yes, sir.' 

He grins. 'Let's head on up to the fifth, then, and see how much I got right.' He holds out his hand to Grenn, who's just arrived and looks incredibly bad-tempered. 'Latte, please.' 

Grenn looks like he's resisting the urge to throw it in Yoren's face, but he hands it over civilly enough. Yoren sips it, and smirks at the detective. 'Let's hope for you sake you didn't spit in it, Detective.' 

''Course I didn't,' mutters Grenn mulishly. Yoren just raises an eyebrow at him before turning around and making his way to the entrance of the building, absolutely confident they'll all follow. 

' _Did_  you spit in it?' he hears Pypar whispering furiously to Grenn. 

'No, 'course I didn't!' Grenn protests, sounding outraged. 

'Lads, please,' Samwell pleads nervously. 

'This isn't a good day, is it,' says Edd balefully. 'Might be them dead boys are havin' a better time of it than I am.' 

Yoren resists the urge to slam his head into a wall, and heads on in. The Halfhand joins him, and they walk together in silence for a few moments until, obviously unable to resist, he asks, 'So what are you thinkin' here, Yoren?' 

'Really want to know?' Yoren asks. 

Qhorin snorts. 'You know I do.' 

'Wait and see, then,' Yoren tells him with a grin, and marches on ahead, grinning as the Halfhand mutters 'Son of a bitch' not quite under his breath. 

The first thing  Yoren sees when the clunky old-fashioned elevator pulls up to the fifth floor is that there is no door, only a large hole in the wall where one should have been. He doesn't have more than half a second to feel smug about his theories being confirmed, however, because Grenn whistles and pipes up, 'Who, fuck, look at that! You know how big's a man got to be to do that? Fuckin'  _huge_.' 

'Shit,' groans Pypar, obviously anticipating what's coming next. Well, at least he's smarter than his colleagues. 

'Detective Grenn,' Yoren says, deceptively polite. 'I think I want a bagel with my coffee.' He walks off before Grenn can reply, but not before he hears Grenn whisper furiously to Pypar, 'I ain't gettin' him his damned bagel!' 

'Maybe you should keep your mouth shut then,' Pypar hisses back. 

Yoren looks around the flat. It's fairly small, obviously inhabited by only two people (going by the two mattresses on the floor) - two very messy people - and fairly decrepit. There is no kitchen. There isn't even really a bathroom, either, just a row of showers on one wall with a drain in the floor, and a toilet in the corner next to a sink. 

Or, well, a sink next to the gaping hole where the toilet had been. 

The picture comes together in Yoren's mind, and he turns a smug smile to the assembled officers. 'Gentlemen,' he declares, 'it appears the mystery of  _how_  this occurred has been solved. The  _who_  as well, it would seem. And I have a very good idea as to the  _why_.' 

'Who did it, then?' Grenn asks, almost grudgingly. 

'And why?' adds Pypar. 

'The men who live here, obviously,' Satin says before Yoren can reply. 'I know this neighbourhood, sir,' he says in response to Yoren's questioning look. 'We can find out more from the bar across the street, I think. If they lived here, chances are they went there a lot.' 

'Or we could search the place for ID,' suggests an officer Yoren doesn't know. 

'Not without a warrant,' the Halfhand reminds him. 'Besides, look around you, boy. Do these men look like they'll have any valid form of ID?' 

'Fair,' concedes the officer. 'Why, then?' 

Yoren ignores him. 'The bar across the street, you say?' he asks Satin, who nods. 'Well, then. Lead the way, Silk.' 

'Satin.' 

'Same difference.' 

 


	3. Part One: Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Robb meet Yoren.

** Jon **

 

Robb's arm is warm and firm around him, his own arm slung around Robb's neck as his brother supports his weight. Jon's tried to stand up on his own and it did not go well – he would have fallen over if Robb had not caught him before he hit the ground, cursing and scolding him even as he helped him to his feet and took on half his weight.

It's a short walk from Casualty to the police station, and Robb spends all of it chiding Jon. 'Jumped off the fuckin' fire escape, you dipshit, and now you're acting like you can, what, run a marathon or some shit? Pipe the fuck down, Jon, you're gonna kill yourself!'

'He was going to kill you, what was I supposed to _do_?' Jon protests for the umpteenth time, and really, if he had the energy he would hit his brother. Robb's bitching is grating on him now, and it's irritating especially because he knows Robb would do the same for him in a heartbeat, would not even think twice about it.

'And I'll owe you forever for that,' Robb begins heatedly, 'but-'

Jon cuts him off. 'No,' he says sharply, stopping in his tracks for a moment. 'No you don't owe me. Idiot,' he adds. 'You're my _brother_ , Robb. I'd – I'd do that and more for you, any day.'

It's not often that either of them states the truth, even though it is always lying just under the surface, visible in every thought and action. 'I know,' Robb says after a few moments. 'Dammit, I _know_. I'd do the same.'

'I know,' Jon says as well. He offers his brother a strained yet sincere smile. 'Let's go, then, let's get it over with.'

'I hear you,' Robb murmurs, and they continue their struggle.

They can hear a babble of voices as they enter (it's quite the struggle, since Robb's arms are full of Jon and Jon's wrists are mincemeat and his hands are bloodied and useless). Jon gives Robb a wide-eyed look when he hears his name and realizes the cops are talking about _them_.

'What makes you think they're dangerous? They were just protecting each other!'

'Look, I'm not saying one way or th'other. Let's just go by protocol on this one, okay?'

'Any idea where they might be?'

'Nah. Find anything in Casualty?'

'Place is packed to the rafters with drunk, bloodied northmen. No help there.'

'They're probably miles away by now, is what they are,' says someone loudly, and Robb grins, pausing just a little so they can hear this one. 'But if you want a theory, how's this – they're scared, all right. They're like little bunny rabbits, is what they are. They see a suit or flashing blue lights, it's gonna scare them, it is. So you want 'em, you gotta hook a potato on a string, drag it through the neighbourhood, it'll have them out in no time-'

Robb chooses this moment to tug Jon forward, and they round a corner and step into sight of the policemen. 'Actually,' he calls out, still grinning, 'you'd have better luck with beer.'

Jon thinks it's a good thing his wrists are fucked, because he would not have minded smacking his dear brother upside the head for that one.

 

The interrogation room is quite nice, compared to all the ones they've been in, in the past. Though that's probably because they're not chained to the table, and there's a guy coming in with a box of Krispy Kreme for them.

'Hey, thanks,' says Jon, surprised. He's quite sure it's not protocol to hand doughnuts to men who've just confessed killing two people.

'I really, you know, respect what you did,' the cop replies, smiling somewhat sheepishly. He's a skinny little fellow whose ears stick out from the side of his head, and he's grinning nervously at them. Jon is a little alarmed to see the glint of hero worship in his eyes. 'Mind if I shake your hands?'

'Sure,' Robb says, looking delighted as he holds out his hand. 'Thanks, man.'

Jon offers him a rueful smile instead of a handshake. 'I would, but my wrists,' he says in explanation, holding his arms up so the cop can see the bloody bandages. 'Sorry.'

'It's okay!' the cop assures him earnestly. He opens his mouth to go on, but before he can speak another cop enters the room, a coffee holder in hand. Jon's stomach rumbles at the scent.

'Here,' the guy says with a smile, putting the coffee down next to the doughnuts. This one's rather good-looking, if a bit young, thinks Jon, and absently wonders what he's done to be made part of the Watch. Someone this pretty and young doesn't usually join voluntarily.

'Thank you,' he says, and smiles back, and Robb does the same.

'It's nothing,' the second cop replies. 'Right, Pyp? It's just – it's great, what you did. You're heroes, you are.'

Robb laughs modestly, though Jon can tell he's enjoying all this attention. 'It's nothing,' he says.

'We didn't really have a choice,' Jon supplies, reaching for one of the coffees and hissing when his wrist twinges in pain. 'They'd have killed us.'

'Even so,' the first cop – Pyp – says. 'It was awesome.'

Robb does not reply; he's heard Jon's hiss of pain and clearly thinks the best response is to knock Jon's hand aside and take the coffee himself, holding it in front of Jon's lips and raising an eyebrow at him as if to say _go on then, have a sip_. This is going to be really awkward, thinks Jon, and there is a good chance the coffee will spill, but what the hell, he needs the caffeine.

Pyp and his colleague watch in fascination as Jon takes a sip from the coffee, and a bite out of the doughnut Robb holds up after that. 'You must be in pain,' the second cop finally says.

'Obviously he is, Satin,' Pyp says before Jon can reply. 'Look at his wrists.'

'Y'done harassing 'em?' grumbles someone, and Pyp and Satin – what a strange name – turn at once to face the newcomer. It's a tall, battle-hardened man with dark hair and eyes and a stern expression, which he's got fixed on the two cops. ''Cause I gotta interrogate 'em, if y'don't mind.'

'Of course, sir,' says Pyp, and he and Satin scramble for the door.

'Forgive 'em,' says the man, taking a seat across the table from Jon and Robb. 'They're a bit excited. Isn't every day we get to see us some real life vigilantes.'

'We aren't vigilantes,' Robb says, taking a bite out of the donut he's feeding Jon.

The man ignores that. 'I'm Special Agent Yoren of the Night's Watch. This conversation is going to be recorded. Just tell me what you know.'

Jon stops him as he reaches for the recorder, ignoring the sharp pain in his wrist. 'Can you please excuse us?' he asks, as polite as he can manage through the pain.

The man nods. Jon leans back, and turns to Robb. 'What do we tell them about the guns and money?' he asks, in the Old Tongue.

'We just got up and left,' Robb replies. 'Might be a bum took 'em before the police got there.'

Jon nods, and they both turn back to Yoren. 'Okay, we're ready to go,' Jon says in the Common Tongue, with a smile. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Robb look up at the heavens as if for mercy, and resists the urge to roll his eyes. Robb is so _dramatic_ (Jon knows what this is about, but he doesn't agree with Robb about the power of his smiles – they are just smiles).

Yoren looks fascinated, but does not comment. Instead he hits the record button and says, 'All right, so you're not under oath here. Tell me – did you know those men from before?'

'We... met them,' Jon answers. 'Last night.'

'They had some pretty interesting bandages,' Yoren notes. 'Know anything 'bout that?'

Jon shares a look with Robb; a moment later, Robb nods his okay. 'We sort of had a fight,' Jon tells Yoren. 'Let's just say it did not go in their favour.'

'I see. Okay, boys, now here's what I think happened. Why don't you give it a listen, tell me if I'm right?' Then, to Jon's astonishment, he rattles off the whole sequence of events, starting from when Big Guy and Pool Table broke into their flat.

'Shit,' says Robb when Yoren is done. Jon is still too stunned to say anything, but _shit_ seems rather apt, in any case.

Yoren grins at their expressions, and then changes tack. 'How come you two know the Old Tongue?' he asks abruptly.

'Listened to our maester as a kid,' Robb replies, with a charming smile. If he is discomfited by the change in subject he does not show it.

'Know any other languages?' Yoren asks.

Robb grins at Jon, who sighs in fond exasperation. This is Robb's favourite thing – and Jon's not going to deny that the enjoys it too. 'Braavosi,' he says.

'How do you think he figured all that out without talking to us?' Robb asks in Braavosi.

'High Valyrian,' Jon says, and then answers Robb in it. 'No idea. Maybe someone saw, and talked?'

'Asshai'i',' Robb replies, and then says in it, 'Not in our neighbourhood, though. No one would tell on us.'

'Lhazareen. Then I guess he's just real good.'

Yoren looks between them, impressed. Then he asks, 'What in seven hells are y'two doing working at a meat-packin' plant?'

Jon and Robb both laugh, even though it makes Jon's ribs hurt. He does his best not to let it show, however – Robb may be a hardened badass, but he can also be notoriously fussy when Jon is concerned, and Jon would rather avoid all of that, at least until they're home, or alone again.

The door opens; it's Satin again. 'Sir?' he addresses Yoren. 'We have a problem.'

'What?' snaps Yoren, looking irritated by the interruption.

Satin pretends to take no notice of Yoren's snappishness. 'Press is at the door, sir,' he informs him. 'They're losing their shit for these two. What do you wanna do?'

Yoren turns back to them. 'You're not being charged. It's up to you. D'you want to talk to them?'

'Absolutely not,' says Robb at once.

'No pictures, either,' Jon adds. Last thing they need is their faces all over the news.

'We could put bags over your heads, march you out the front like that,' Yoren suggests, only half-joking.

Robb snorts. 'No, thank you. Is there any way we can stay here?'

Yoren looks to Satin for an answer. Satin nods. 'Aye, sir, there's an empty holding cell. Can they stay?'

'Well, I sure don't mind if your friends stay over,' Yoren mutters to Satin, who flushes. Robb and Jon share another look, and laugh, and Satin manages a grin too, still red in the face.

Yoren stands, and sighs. 'Well, time to feed the dogs,' he says, and shuffles out of the room to go deal with the press.

'He's not bad,' Jon murmurs to Robb in High Valyrian.

Robb holds out the doughnut in front of him for a bite. 'Yeah, he's not bad,' he replies in Braavosi, waiting for Jon to take a bite before having some himself.

'If you want I can take you to your cell,' Satin says. 'Not, uh, _your_ cell. The cell you'll be sleeping in. You can take the doughnuts and coffee,' he adds.

'Well, I'm sold,' Robb says, and Jon laughs.

'Thank you,' he tells Satin. 'That would be nice.'

They hear Yoren talking to the press as they follow Satin – something about 'not being charged with a crime' and 'self-defence', and uneasily Jon wonders if Yoren has mentioned them by name. They're not alone though, so he can't bring it up with Robb just yet.

'It's not a bad cell,' Satin is saying. 'I'll try to find warmer blankets, though.'

'Thanks,' Robb says, but is prevented from saying more by a delighted laugh. They turn towards the source of the sound; Theon has somehow made his way into the station, a bag of clothes slung on one wrist, both arms wide open as he makes to embrace them.

'Hey, heroes!' he crows, wrapping his arms around both of them as soon as he is close enough, and suddenly Jon is very up close and personal with his friend's sweaty armpit. Gods above, it is _vile_.

'Theon, not that I'm not happy to see you,' he says, struggling for breath, 'but when was the last time you showered?'

Robb laughs; so does Theon, even though he lightly socks Jon in the arm. 'Don't be a dick,' he says.

'Don't hit him,' Robb says reproachfully, shoving at Theon, 'can't you see he's hurt?'

Theon rolls his eyes. 'Sorry I hurt your fragile princess, asshole.'

'Just give us the clothes,' Jon says, sighing.

'You're welcome,' snipes Theon as he hands the bag over. 'See if I do your ungrateful arses a favour next time,' he warns as he leaves.

'We love you too, Theon,' Robb calls after him. Theon's only response is to flip them off, but they hear him laugh merrily as he goes.

'Speak for yourself,' Jon mutters.

Satin's not wrong; the cell really is not that bad. Bare and barren, but that's to be expected. There are two mattresses on the floor and a steel toilet and sink in the corner. It's not that different from their flat, which, Jon thinks, is somehow both reassuring and sort of sad.

They change in silence; Robb goes first, and then helps Jon into his clothes. They finish their doughnuts in silence, and then their coffee, Robb still helping Jon – and now that they're alone, Jon lets him, not minding it so much or resisting the fussing. It's nice to be looked after.

There isn't much to do, though, and soon enough they're bored. Jon's tired, too, after the morning they've had, and despite the coffee he feels sleepy. His wrists are aching almost constantly now, and he can tell it's annoying Robb that he can't do anything about it. Robb hates feeling helpless when it comes to Jon, and Jon cannot blame him – gods know he is the exact same about his brother, too.

In the end they just doze off on their respective mattresses, the remains of their food on the floor between them. The last thing Jon thinks before his brain shuts off is that he's so glad to be alive and with Robb. This could have gone a lot worse, but it didn't, and he is grateful for that.

 

The end up sleeping the whole day, and through the night. Jon wakes up a few times in between, when the pain in his wrists and ribs gets too much to bear, and in response Robb manages to acquire painkillers from the cops on duty. They fell over themselves and each other in their haste to comply, or so Robb tells Jon as he sits by his side, holding a glass of water to his lips for him to drink. Afterwards he eases Jon back on to the mattress and brings the thin blankets up to his chin, and stays with him until he falls back asleep. Jon has never loved him as much or as deep as he does tonight, here in this damp, dark cell.

 

He feels much better in the morning, now that he's rested. His wrists and ribs are not hurting him too much, either, and he tells Robb this as his brother helps him up. 'I'm glad,' Robb murmurs. 'Come on. You ready to go home?'

Jon nods. 'Hell yes,' he says fervently. He's not sure what he's going to do once they're back at the flat, though. Probably nap some more. Maybe if Theon's place is free they can go there and take over his couch and watch bad daytime telly. That would be nice.

There is a beeping noise; Robb looks at Jon, confused, and Jon looks back at him, both eyebrows raised. He locates it a moment later, and, pointing to yesterday's clothes folded in a corner, says, 'It's from your pocket, Robb.'

'Oh.' His brother retrieves the beeper he took off Big Guy. 'Wonder who it is.'

Jon offers him a sharp smile. 'Why don't we find out?'

They leave their cell to, surprisingly, a round of applause. It seems every officer available is there, clapping and grinning and cheering, much to Jon's bewilderment. Really, all he's done is throw a toilet on a man who threatened his brother. It's not as if they've gone and won a war, or something.

Robb seems to be enjoying it, though; he grins and gives his thanks, and high fives whoever asks, and shakes hands with the rest. Jon is spared the latter due to his wrists, but does have to participate in all the thanking and welcoming and banter, which he manages with good grace. Years of tolerating social situations he never wanted to be in has taught him this much, at least. In this respect he's not like Robb, who is extroverted and charming; he's the opposite, keeping to himself and mostly speaking only when spoken to.

'Would you presume to share a doughnut with us peasants?' asks an officer, a large, shaggy guy.

'We'd be honoured,' adds Pyp.

'Sure.' Robb gives them a dazzling smile, and pulls up a chair at someone's desk for Jon. Instead of sitting, he chooses to stand at Jon's shoulder. He'll deny to his grave that he is hovering, but that is exactly what he is doing, and even though his overprotectiveness can be exasperating, Jon cannot help but feel warmth and fondness towards his brother for it.

'Look at that,' Satin says, showing them the day's paper.

' _The Saints of King's Landing_ ,' reads Jon. 'Would you look at that, Robb. We're famous.' He scans through the article quickly, and his heart sinks when he sees his and Robb's names in print. He takes care not to let it show, but he makes a mental note to discuss it with Robb later. They didn't get the chance earlier, what with Jon's injuries and pain, and Jon hopes it's not too late by now.

'Saints?' says Robb with a grin. 'I'm not accepting that till I've been properly anointed.'

Jon laughs, and so do the officers. One of them, a rather gloomy looking man with a receding hairline, says, 'Well, might as well be canonised for manslaughter than for being killed, I say. And much better than jailtime, aye.'

'Don't be such a downer, Edd,' mutters the first officer.

'This is him bein' positive, Grenn,' says Satin, and they all share another laugh.

'Hey,' Jon says suddenly, remembering the pager, 'do you mind if I use your phone?'

''Course not,' says Pyp. He points to where it is. 'Help yourself, Mr Saint.'

Jon offers him a wry smile, before rising from his chair – thankfully without needing Robb's help – and making it to the phone. He punches in the number on the pager, and listens intently.

It takes him a moment to realise that it's a message, and it's in some dialect of Low Valyrian. The caller seems to be rattling off a time and place to meet, and Jon carefully commits the words to memory before shutting off the phone. He frowns to himself. The sooner he and Robb are out of here, the better.

They've got work to do.


	4. Part Two: Robb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa visits her brothers with bad news. Benjen Stark has a mission for his nephews.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoo, so it's been a bit of a lengthy hiatus! my apologies, i'm in my final year of med school and whoo boy, that shit's a bitch and a half to deal with. still, i'm managing to manage, which is a feat in itself.
> 
> (bullet journals help immensely.)
> 
> i'm going to try to be more regular-ish with updates, but in case i'm not, please feel free to come kick me in the comments.

****** PART TWO **

 

 

** Robb **

 

There is something mildly disturbing about finding their prim and proper sister sitting in the middle of the wreckage of their flat. Robb raises his eyebrows at Sansa, who is perched at the edge of his mattress, her nose wrinkled slightly at the smell of damp that permeates everything in the room.

‘Sansa?’ Jon sounds every bit as surprised as Robb feels. ‘Is – is everything okay?’

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ Robb adds, somewhat sharp. Now that the initial shock of seeing her has worn off, he can’t help but worry. What if someone saw her? What if she’s been followed? He and Jon have worked far too hard for it to be undone by their civilian sister, who, despite being always well-intentioned, sometimes simply cannot understand their situation.

‘I know,’ she replies to him, and he is struck by how off her voice sounds. Looking closer, he can see the cracks in her confident façade – the dark circles underneath her dulled blue eyes, the slight dishevelment of her hair and clothes, as if she’s slept in them, and badly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she adds, and sounds strangely bleak. ‘I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t – I just.’ She pauses, frustrated. ‘I had to,’ she finishes a second later.

‘Sansa,’ Jon says gently, sitting down next to her. ‘What’s going on? Are you all right?’

She presses her lips together tightly, turning her gaze away to the far wall so that she doesn’t have to look at her brothers. Robb watches, still standing, as she knots her fingers in her lap and takes a deep breath, clearly steeling herself.

‘Sansa,’ Jon says for the third time, and reaches out to wrap an arm about her shoulders. He looks perturbed. ‘Sansa, what is it?’

Jon’s gesture is the last straw – she lets out a long, trembling sigh, and leans just a little into Jon’s side. Robb watches, alarmed, as a single tear makes its way down her face. ‘It’s Father,’ she manages to get out, voice heavy with barely-restrained emotion. She reaches out for Jon’s hand and takes it, squeezing it tight. ‘He…’

‘Sansa,’ Robb says sharply, and she looks up at him, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘Sansa, _what is it_?’

Sansa snaps. ‘Father’s _dead_!’ she bursts out, before dissolving into tears and turning her face into Jon’s shoulder. Robb watches, shell-shocked, as Jon remains absolutely still, his face frozen in an unreadable mask as their sister cries in his arms.

Robb feels dizzy, the world spinning around him and crowding in on the edges of his vision, and before he can collapse he staggers over to sit on Sansa’s other side. ‘What,’ he manages to choke out. ‘That’s not possible.’

Sansa just cries harder, and that seems to spur Jon into action – he wraps his arms around her and lets her cry into his neck, her tears staining his shirt. Robb feels a tug on his own shirt and looks down to find that Jon’s reached out with one hand and is holding on tightly to whatever part of Robb is closest, which in this case happens to be his shoulder. He looks ghost-white, his face frighteningly blank, and it’s only the tremor in his fingers that lets Robb know that there is something so horrifyingly not right.

‘What happened?’ he manages to say a few moments later, his grip on Robb’s shirt so tight that his knuckles are white. ‘ _How_ —’

There is a pause as Sansa takes in a few deep breaths in an attempt to compose herself, her face almost as red as her hair. Something sharp pokes at the inside of Robb’s throat as he watches his normally calm and composed sister try to get herself together, one hand still clutching Jon’s shirt and the other reaching blindly for Robb.

He takes her hand, squeezes her fingers and tries to offer what he thinks is an encouraging expression, but his brain does not seem to be functioning and he’s pretty sure it comes out as a grimace instead. She doesn’t look at him, which is just as well; instead she chooses to pin her eyes to the debris of the broken doorway. ‘We don’t know what happened,’ she says hoarsely, her voice, to her credit, only a little shaky. ‘He-he didn’t come home at the time he was supposed to, so Mum tried calling him, but he wouldn’t pick up.’ She pauses, breathing deeply, steeling herself. ‘She called Uncle Ben and asked him to try to look for Father, make sure he’s all right, and he said he would do his best.’ Her voice is expressionless as she concludes with, ‘Three hours later he called us to tell us they found Father’s body.’

‘Where?’ demands Jon.

She just presses her lips together and closes her eyes as if by not looking at her brothers she can ward off their questions. Part of Robb understands how impossible it must be for her to even tell them about this, and therefore wants to be patient with her, but another part wants to shake the answers out of her. Most of him, though, still just feels numb. It’s not just hard, it’s fucking _impossible_ to process that his dad is—

‘Sansa, what are you doing here?’

All three of them look up in unison at the incredulous voice of their uncle, who is standing in the ruined doorway. Benjen Stark looks an unkempt, sleep-deprived mess of a man, but it does not diminish the tension and tightly-controlled disapproval in his expression any less. ‘You know you’re not supposed to be here,’ he chides his niece.

‘I know,’ she admits, voice still a little wet, but otherwise it is remarkable how quickly she regains her composure. ‘But – oh, Uncle Ben, I _know_ it’s not an excuse, but I just _had_ to see them. I’m sorry if I got them in trouble,’ she adds.

‘You didn’t, sweetheart,’ Ben tells her, softening, looking visibly older as he does so. Robb watches as his uncle seems to deflate, the lines on his face becoming more pronounced, as he steps into the flat and holds his hand out to Sansa. ‘Come on now, girlie, on your feet,’ he tells her, not unkindly. ‘You best hope no one saw you, because it’s going to be fucking tough explaining why a beauty like you is hanging out with these two mongrels.’ His half-arsed attempt at humour falls flat but Sansa graces him with a wobbly little smile anyway, accepting his hand and getting to her feet.

‘Look after yourselves,’ she tells Jon and Robb in farewell. ‘And don’t worry about back home,’ she adds, looking resolute and determined even through her grief, and gods, Robb loves her so much it hurts. ‘I’ll – I’ll do what I can.’

‘Look after Mum,’ Robb tells her, voice a little hoarse. ‘And tell her – tell her we’re safe. Tell her we’ll be home as soon as possible.’

She nods. ‘Bye,’ she tells them, and Robb can tell she is trying so hard not to break down again. The moment goes as soon as it came, however, and her features are back in their usual façade of composure as she adds, ‘You take care too, Uncle Ben.’

‘And you, Sansa,’ he tells her gruffly, patting her head awkwardly as she passes him on her way to the door. ‘Tell your mum I’ll be by when I can. And get her to eat something.’

She nods, and is gone in a flurry of black trenchcoat and red hair. It is as if the last of Robb’s strenuous hold on his emotion goes with her; the moment she is out of earshot his hand shoots out, almost of its own accord, to clutch at Jon’s shirt in a grip so tight it hurts. Jon is still holding on to him as well, face so white it is actually a little frightening, his eyes wide and wild as he silently looks from his brother to their uncle.

Benjen looks between them a moment, then sighs and sits down on the other mattress, facing them. ‘I can’t be seen here, so I’ll make it short,’ he tells them, running a hand through his disheveled hair and managing to mess up whatever’s left of his ponytail. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to find out like this. I wish you hadn’t.’

Robb finds his voice again. ‘When did it happen?’ It comes out desperate, harsh. Jon’s grip on his shirt tightens even more, something Robb was not aware was possible. His brother still does not speak, or do much more than breathe in and out rapidly as he tries to remain in control of himself.

‘Some time last night,’ Benjen tells him, looking haunted as he looks up to make eye contact. ‘Look, I know this isn’t easy, and if it were anyone else, or if your situation was even a little bit different, I would wait to tell you. But it’s not, and you’re here, and I can’t stay long, so whatever I know, I have to pass on now. Do you understand?’ He waits until Jon and Robb nod, before continuing. ‘I found him here, in King’s Landing, on the beach. Entirely too close to the Keep for my comfort. They—’ For the first time he falters, his voice breaking, and Robb watches as his uncle struggles not to let his emotions overcome him. In the end he opts for a cold, clinical tone, as if he is speaking about literally anyone other than his brother. ‘They decapitated him.’

An anguished noise escapes Robb unbidden, making its way past the lump in his throat. Next to him Jon is still maddeningly, worryingly silent, though he has shifted closer so that he’s pressed against Robb from shoulder to hip to knee. There is a strange sort of comfort in the warmth his brother provides, a reminder that there is still life on this earth, that he is not alone in this. Not for the first time Robb finds himself absently thanking whoever is listening that Jon is here, with him, like he has always been since the moment their father first introduced Robb to his new brother. He’s quite sure he would have lost his sanity a long while ago if he had not had Jon.

Thinking of their father is still impossible for now, though, so he turns his attention back to his mute brother and distraught uncle. He needs to have his shit together. At least for now, for as long as Benjen is here, he needs to stay in control. He can break down later, he can shut down to process this when it’s just him and Jon again.

Gathering every single bit of strength that he can dredge up, Robb asks, ‘Do you know who did it?’ His own voice sounds far away, cold and detached as he subconsciously adopts Benjen’s defence mechanism as well.

Benjen shakes his head. ‘No,’ he admits, rubbing at his eyes furiously and leaving them red. ‘But I have my suspicions. You know who I mean.’ He waits for Robb to nod before going on. ‘This is the last time it’s safe for us to see each other. What I need from you two now is to find out who did this, and—’

‘Catch them,’ Robb finishes. His free hand automatically curls into a fist.

‘No,’ says Benjen coldly. ‘Finish them.’

A ringing silence follows his proclamation. Robb can do nothing but stare at his uncle, mouth hanging open as he processes his words. Benjen Stark is the most by-the-book man he knows, almost as much as his brother, and to hear him say something like this…

‘You don’t mean it,’ Robb says.

‘I do,’ Benjen replies, standing. ‘This is not official, by the way. The official story is that you apprehend them. But you know as well as I do that the people I’m suspecting are too rich and powerful to ever really pay. So you do what has to be done, you hear me?’

Robb manages a nod. ‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘Good,’ says Benjen shortly. ‘Look after each other,’ he tells them at the door. ‘You need each other now more than you ever have.’ And he leaves.

More silence, awful deafening silence that presses in on Robb from every direction, constricting his chest, wreaking havoc with whatever is left of his sanity. It's too much, it's too fucking much, he can't take it—

And then Jon screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's still kind of slow up to this point, but i promise things are going to get faster now, so please bear with me! any feedback and comments are much appreciated :)
> 
> love,  
> remy x
> 
> ps: i don't mean for sansa to be ooc in this re: her relationship with jon; it's canon that as she grows and matures she understands how badly she has treated him for nothing he can help, and i'd like to think, in the context of this fic at least, that he grows on her once she is able to see past his bastard status. their much warmer dynamic in this is due to that.


	5. Part Two: Yoren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yoren has another Bad Day, courtesy of Alliser Thorne and Tywin Lannister. Qhorin discusses the Starks. More dead bodies make an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i felt so bad for neglecting this fic that i threw out another chapter as fast as i could. never let it be said that guilt isn't a good motivator, folks.
> 
> also, i want to thank everyone who's leaving kudos and comments. i'm reading them all, and i'm so so grateful. i love you!

** Yoren **

 

Yoren is not having a good day.

Again.

Even the double espresso in his hand cannot prepare him enough for this bullshit, especially when it’s topped off by the sound of Grenn talking in the background, formulating yet another bullshit theory about what’s going on. Not for the first time, Yoren wishes he had the power to fire these idiots. For a moment he wishes he had more caffeine in his bloodstream, and then comes to the somewhat sad realisation that even if he directly injected coffee into his eyeballs, it would not be enough to deal with this.

He hates Slynt and Thorne so, so much for putting him in this clusterfuck.

‘So listen,’ Grenn is saying loudly to whoever is around. ‘Maybe they’re doing something they shouldn’t be, right? And Stark catches them. Maybe he doesn’t mean to, but he does it, right? And they know he’s an honest man, and no amount of money or power in the world is gonna get him to keep quiet about what he’s seen, and they can’t let him go, it’s just too damn risky. So they kill him, right, they kill him and they dump the body by the beach and hope the water gets rid of the evidence, right—’

Yoren cannot take it anymore. ‘Grenn!’ he calls.

Grenn pauses, looking apprehensive. ‘What?’

Yoren shakes his empty coffee cup at him. ‘I need more. Cappuccino, soy milk. Get me a muffin too while you’re at it.’

‘I’m not your fucking slave—’ Grenn begins furiously, but is interrupted by the Halfhand.

‘Just go,’ the man grumbles, looking irritated.

‘And throw this for me on the way out,’ Yoren adds sweetly, holding out his empty paper cup, ignoring the dustbin just by his feet.

Grenn lets out a rumble of exasperation, snatches the cup from Yoren’s hand, and then grabs Pyp by the sleeve. ‘You’re comin’ with me,’ he hisses at his partner.

‘Why do I gotta—?’ Pyp’s protest is cut off when he notes the expression on Grenn’s face.

The Halfhand waits for them to leave, and then looks around the office, evidently making sure there’s no one in earshot. Then he pulls up a chair next to Yoren’s and says, voice low, ‘The boy’s not half-wrong, Yoren.’ At Yoren’s incredulous expression he rolls his eyes and says, ‘At least the gist of it, I mean. Why would anyone want to murder Stark? That whole family’s clean as fuck, from Stark right down to his fucking toddler. They don’t get involved in gang shit or anything like that.’

‘It’s not gang shit,’ Yoren replies, running a hand through his hair as he regards the Halfhand. ‘And whoever did this to him – it was personal. You saw his body. You saw the autopsy report. This was _planned_ , not a spur of the moment thing. This was not just a murder, Qhorin – it was a fuckin _execution_.’

A heavy silence follows his words, broken only when the Halfhand sighs. ‘Dunno what the fuck I’m s’posed to tell his family,’ he mutters. ‘Bad enough he’s gone, but the way they did it… that’s fuckin brutal. And a man like Stark – he didn’t deserve it. Not him.’

‘Yeah well, the world don’t cater to our whims and our personal notions of justice, Qhorin.’ Yoren’s tone, while a little harsh, is not overall unkind. ‘It happened. Ain’t shit we can do about it now except make sure we catch who did it.’

‘Do his sons know?’ the Halfhand asks, looking Yoren in the eye. ‘The ones who were in here yesterday?’

Yoren starts. ‘What—’

‘Jon and Robb,’ supplies Qhorin. ‘I know you know they’re his boys. Dunno why you didn’t say anything, though.’

‘Why the fuck would I bring their father up to them?’ questions Yoren rhetorically. ‘I mean, not even considering that he got killed – if you know who they are then you know why they’re livin’ in the world’s shittiest flat like a pair of plebes, workin’ at a meat packin’ plant that probably pays ‘em just ‘bout enough not to get them kicked out said shitey flat. You know things between them and the family ain’t good. No point in bringing that up to them for no reason.’

Qhorin nods, accepting the explanation. ‘No yeah, I know what you mean,’ he says. ‘Still, bad blood or not, they’re not gonna like this.’

‘’Course not,’ Yoren says shortly. ‘Their dad got his head chopped off. Whatever happened later, I know Stark loved his boys and they love him too. Someone oughtta check in on ‘em, see what’s up.’

‘No,’ disagrees Qhorin. ‘Leave ‘em alone to grieve. Worst thing ‘bout that kinda shit is havin’ an audience. They’re good boys, Yoren, they’re not gonna do anything stupid.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Yoren says, one eyebrow going up.

The Halfhand shrugs. ‘Didn’t say you did. Just makin’ a point.’ He stands up. ‘One more thing, Yoren.’ He waits till Yoren looks up to him and makes eye contact, before saying, ‘I know you’ve worked with Ben Stark in the past. And I know he’s on the case. Don’t let him get too close. It’s his _brother_ , after all, there’s no fuckin way he can be objective ‘bout this. Talk to whoever’s in charge, get him off. And pass on my best to him,’ he adds.

Yoren considers Qhorin’s words, and finally nods. ‘I hear ya,’ he says shortly.

The Halfhand pauses, fingers tapping on Yoren’s desk, looking like he wants to say something more. Just then, however, Grenn arrives with coffee and muffin in hand, looking gloriously foul-tempered, Pyp just behind him, and the moment passes. Qhorin taps twice on Yoren’s desk in farewell and heads back to his own desk, dragging his chair behind him. Yoren watches him go, humming thoughtfully under his breath.

Shit’s getting real.

 

Yoren is halfway through a tabloid article on the Starks when his phone rings. Thorne’s name on the screen elicits an exasperated groan and a ‘ _Fuuuuuuck_ ’, but Yoren picks up before he can convince himself to either destroy his phone or blow up his workplace. ‘What?’ he snaps into it.

‘Show some respect,’ greets Thorne. ‘I’m your senior.’

‘What?’ Yoren asks again, in a much nicer tone that still manages to convey his contempt.

‘Stark’s been murdered,’ Thorne tells him. ‘I’m sure you must have heard by now.’

‘Yes I know,’ Yoren replies. ‘I’m on the case.’

‘No you’re not,’ disagrees Thorne.

‘I’m sorry, _what_?’ Yoren asks incredulously.

‘I’m taking you off the case—’

‘You’ve got to be _kidding_ me—’

‘—because frankly, there are more important things—’

‘—the man got _decapi-fucking-tated_ —’

‘—the Lannisters need our help, and—’

‘—I don’t give a shit—’

‘—I’m assigning you to Tywin Lannister—’

‘—for the love of fuck, Alliser, _listen to me_ —’

‘ENOUGH!’ Thorne shouts it so loudly that Yoren has to hold the phone a foot away from his face, and even then he can still hear the man’s bitching with absolute clarity. ‘You’re not going to be on the Stark case, and _that is that_. I’m assigning you to Tywin Lannister, and you will _listen to his problems_ , and then you will do _everything in your power_ to solve them. Do you understand?’

‘Alliser—’

‘ _Do – you – understand.’_ It’s not a question.

Yoren sighs. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes _sir_.’ He doesn’t even try to keep the disgust out of his tone.

‘Good.’ There is so much smugness in Thorne’s tone that it almost makes Yoren physically ill. ‘I trust I will not hear of any problems from you.’

‘You won’t,’ Yoren says, muttering, ‘hear of them,’ under his breath. He hangs up before Thorne can pile more shit on him and ruin his day further than he already has, and slams his phone back down on the receiver. Satin, who is just passing his desk, jumps at the sudden sound and throws Yoren a wary look, giving his desk a wide berth on his way to the bathroom.

‘Fuck,’ groans Yoren, dropping his head in his hands and massaging his temples. ‘Fuck me, I hate that man,’ he grumbles to no one in particular.

The picture of Stark’s body is still on his computer screen when he looks up, and the tabloid article he was reading is still open in the background. Yoren thoughtfully stares at his screen, eyebrows drawn down over narrowed eyes as he hums pensively under his breath, not even realising he’s doing it. There’s something there. Definitely something, and he’s determined to find out what. For all their internal problems – Yoren can’t help but think of Mrs Stark’s infamous apathy to her stepson and all that came of it – the Starks are a clean cut family. They’re _good_ people, always keeping to themselves but also giving back to the community and shit. Even Mrs Stark – for all his personal feelings on the matter, he can’t deny that at heart, she is a good woman. Her only flaw is her misplaced anger over her late husband’s infidelity.

‘You’re not going to be able to let this go.’

Yoren jumps, and looks up from the screen to see the Halfhand back again, leaning against his desk, posture relaxed, hands in his pockets. He has a knowing look in his eyes as he looks down at his old friend. ‘Are you?’ he prompts, but it’s clear from his face that he already knows the answer.

‘No,’ admits Yoren in a low voice. ‘Anyone else, maybe I could’ve. Not the Starks.’

‘Does this have anything to do with the boys?’ questions Qhorin.

Yoren shrugs. ‘I dunno. Don’t really care. I just want to know who the fuck did it, and why.’

Qhorin accepts this, but despite that Yoren knows the conversation is not yet over. Before the Halfhand can continue, he changes the subject. ‘Anyway, Thorne took me off the case, so. I can’t do much, can I?’

The Halfhand snorts. ‘You’ve never let that stop you, you wrinkly old fuck.’

At that, Yoren can’t help but grin. ‘Truth,’ he agrees. ‘Besides, fuck Thorne, he ain’t the boss of me.’

Qhorin raises an eyebrow. ‘He literally is.’

‘Don’t give a fuck,’ Yoren says shortly. ‘And while we’re at it, fuck Tywin Lannister.’

Qhorin grins too. ‘Now that’s a statement I can get behind, brother.’

Yoren knows he doesn’t need to ask, not Qhorin of all people who’s had his back since time immortal when they were both fresh-faced new recruits, but he does anyway. ‘You in or you out?’

Qhorin removes his mangled hand from his pocket, and taps Yoren’s desk with whatever’s left of his fingers. ‘Pity that you thought you had to ask. ‘Course I’m in.’

Yoren nods. ‘Figured as much.’

‘All right then,’ the Halfhand says, ceasing his tapping and pulling up a chair. ‘Show me what you got. Let’s find out who the fuck’s responsible for this.’

‘Already ahead of you, brother,’ Yoren replies with a smirk, pulling up the tabs he’s got open on his computer.

 

Tywin Lannister calls somewhere near the end of Yoren’s shift, and it’s only because Yoren is expecting the call that he does not snap in reply as he is wont to do. Instead, he grits his teeth and manages a semi-polite ‘Yes?’

‘I assume Alliser Thorne has spoken to you,’ Lannister says in greeting, in his low, self-assured tone.

‘He has,’ Yoren agrees, resisting the urge to sigh. ‘He didn’t tell me what you want, though. Sir,’ he just manages to add.

‘Yes,’ is all Lannister says. ‘The summary, Agent Yoren—’

‘Special Agent,’ Yoren corrects without thinking, then grimaces. Fuck.

‘Please do not interrupt me again.’ It’s remarkable how Lannister doesn’t even have to threaten him to sound so casually dangerous.

‘My apologies.’

‘The summary of the situation is thus,’ Lannister says, going on as if the interruption hasn’t occurred. ‘Someone is killing my Gold Cloaks.’

The dead bodies from the allies flash in Yoren’s mind’s eye. ‘How horrible,’ he says tonelessly, mind going into overdrive.

‘In addition to the bodies you recently found, six more have turned up,’ Lannister informs him.

Yoren straightens in his chair. ‘What? I didn’t hear of—’

‘It has not been called in yet,’ Lannister cuts in smoothly. ‘My men always report to me before they report to the Watch. I daresay, however, that you will receive the call in a few minutes or so. I trust that you will be able to get to the bottom of who is executing my men in such a brutal fashion?’

Yoren just barely refrains from reminding him that the Cloaks, technically, are the King’s men, not his, and being the King’s grandfather does not actually make him god. Then again, Lannisters hate being reminded that they are just mortal men like the rest, so Yoren wisely holds his tongue in that regard. ‘I will do my best,’ he tells Tywin Lannister.

‘Good,’ the man says softly. ‘I will await your report.’ There is a _click_ as he hangs up.

‘What the fuck,’ Yoren mouths to himself as he puts the phone down. In sharp contrast to his previous indifference to Tywin Lannister and his problems, he finds himself intrigued. While the Cloaks are universally disliked in Kings Landing due to their habit of abusing their power, no one has ever been bold enough to openly and actively resist them. People have always been too afraid of the Lannisters.

Until now, it would seem.

‘Sir!’

Yoren is ripped from his thoughts by the sound of Samwell’s voice. The man looks panicked as he hurries towards Yoren as fast as his legs can carry him.

‘What is it, Tarly?’

Samwell stops just in front of Yoren’s desk, red-faced and panting. ‘There’s been a call, sir,’ he manages, hand over his heart as he gulps in air.

‘Six dead Cloaks,’ Yoren says before Samwell can continue.

The boy throws him a peculiar look. ‘Yes, sir,’ he confirms. ‘Found in one of Petyr Baelish’s brothels. They were discovered by the man in charge of the place, sir, when they didn’t appear after a long while. No one heard anything, sir, and the man says no one went in or out. They’re baffled, sir.’

‘Well, then,’ Yoren says, standing. ‘Let’s go see if we can unbaffle them, eh?’

If shit was at the fan before, now it’s transcended the ceiling. This, Yoren thinks as he mobilises his unit and prepares to leave for the scene of the crime, is either going to turn out really well, or really badly.

Either way, he’s prepared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the story should pick up from here, hopefully :D stay tuned for more murder and vengeful starks.
> 
> love,  
> remy x


	6. Part Two: Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Jon start their mission. Theon puts in an appearance. Something's really fucking suspicious about the whole situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am having so much fun writing this, holy shit.

** Jon **

There are hearts in Robb’s eyes. Jon can almost hear the first few bars of George Martin’s _Careless Whisper_ in the air. It’s – well, it’s _weird_ , the way his brother is looking at the weaponry adorning the wall and shelves, carefully and lovingly put on display by the black market arms dealer standing next to them and trying to discreetly watch them.

‘Help yourselves,’ the guy says presently, evidently satisfied by whatever he thinks he’s learned from a few seconds of staring at them. He nods at Jon, who is the only one listening to him, and then goes to lean against the wall with his phone in his hand, chewing gum as he plays games on it.

‘Right, thanks,’ Jon tells him, and taps Robb on the shoulder. ‘C’mon then, let’s have a look.’

‘You don’t have to tell me twice,’ Robb says, giddy with delight.

Together they step into the small cordoned-off section of the room that houses the weapons, Jon taking care to keep the arms dealer in his peripheral vision at all times. Robb, who knows that Jon is always watching his back, has no such qualms, and is staring at the display of guns like it’s the most beautiful woman in the world, and she’s naked and awaiting him.

‘You concern me immensely sometimes,’ Jon mutters to him as he passes by, heading for the more practical stuff.

‘Don’t care,’ Robb says cheerily as he begins grabbing at the guns. Jon just sighs and begins on amassing tactical gear.

‘What do you need rope for?’ Robb asks at one point, turning to face Jon with his arms full of guns of all kinds.

Jon shrugs. ‘You never know,’ is all he says. ‘Might come in handy.’

‘How the fuck is rope going to come in handy?’ questions Robb.

‘Like I said, you never know,’ Jon replies patiently. ‘Besides, it’s in all the movies, isn’t it?’

‘ _What_ movies?’ asks Robb, but that’s the point that Jon begins ignoring him, and so he doesn’t get an answer.

They barter a little with the arms dealer when they’re done, and exit the building considerably poorer but better-armed for it. They work in silence, depositing their new acquisitions into their shitty car, and neither of them feel the need to fill the silence with words. Now that they haven’t got anything else to distract them, Ned’s death weighs heavily on them, compressing the air between them and pressing down on Jon’s chest until it feels like he can’t breathe from how much he misses his dad.

‘You’re sure about the address, right?’ Robb asks in a low voice when they’re on the road.

‘Yeah,’ Jon replies, subdued. ‘It’s one of Baelish’s brothels. Though I’m not sure if it’s actually a meeting or they’re planning an orgy.’

‘Does it matter?’ asks Robb rhetorically. ‘I say we finish them anyway.’

Jon sighs. ‘Robb…’

‘No, don’t _Robb_ me!’ his brother snaps. ‘Jon, Father is _gone_! And I don’t care that we don’t have any evidence, I don’t care what the Watch says, I _know_ who did it, okay? We both know. And no way in hell am I going to let them walk free!’

‘I know!’ Jon retorts. ‘You think I’m not feeling it like you are? You think it doesn’t hurt me with every breath I take? At least you got to say goodbye, Robb, I didn’t!’ Abruptly he stops, aware he’s said too much already.

‘What?’ Robb asks sharply. ‘Jon, what are you talking about?’

‘Forget it,’ Jon says heavily, knowing even as the words leave his mouth that Robb won’t let it go. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘It sure as shit isn’t nothing,’ Robb snaps at him. ‘Now, are you going to tell me or do I have to wrestle it out of you?’

‘Just let it go, Robb!’ Jon says, exasperated. ‘It’s nothing to do with you!’

‘Well, you’re my _brother_ talking about my _father_ and obviously something is upsetting you, but no you’re right, it’s nothing to do with me,’ Robb observes, voice heavy with sarcasm.

Jon sighs. ‘You’re not going to like this at all,’ he mutters, in lieu of arguing further. There’s just no point – Robb is going to get it out of him at some point anyway.

‘Try me,’ Robb challenges.

Jon takes a moment to steel himself before beginning. ‘The night before we left Father asked to see me,’ he says, voice low. ‘He said he wanted to talk to me about my mother, but he couldn’t do it then. Said there were some things he had to sort out before he could tell me, and that by the time we came back he’d be ready for any questions I might have. I asked him what it was about her that he spent so long keeping her a secret, and he told me he’d tell me eventually. “All in due time,” he said. Your mum was passing by, and she heard him, and I don’t know what happened exactly but when Father saw her he asked me to leave and we’d finish the conversation in a few minutes. I could hear her getting angry in there so I just left, though, I didn’t want to hear them fight because of me.

‘It went on longer than a few minutes, though, and they only stopped when—’

‘When I went up to see Father,’ finishes Robb in a whisper. ‘So that’s why they were rowing when I went up to say bye.’

‘I guess,’ Jon replies unhappily. ‘I wanted to go up with you, or after you at least, but your mum was still there and I didn’t want her to see me and get angry again, so I just told myself that I could talk to Father later, and it was better just to leave now. And now – now I wish more than anything that I’d just gone anyway. Yeah, your mum wouldn’t have liked it, but at least I’d have got to talk to Father one last time.’

‘Gods, Jon,’ Robb says after a while, subdued. ‘I had no idea.’

‘I didn’t want you to know,’ Jon says heavily. ‘Whatever she thinks of me, she’s your _mum_. And she’s not even wrong, from where she’s standing.’

‘Neither are you,’ Robb says gently. ‘You didn’t ask to be born.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Jon says. ‘Nothing anybody does or says will ever change the facts. Father barely spoke of my mother, even when I used to beg him to take me to her, and your mum can’t stand to even look at me. Doesn’t matter whose fault it is, or even if it’s nobody’s fault. It is what it is.’

‘I didn’t know you wanted to go back to her,’ Robb says after a pause.

Jon lets out a bitter, mirthless laugh. ‘I was a bastard kid whose stepmother hated the very sight of him and probably wished I didn’t exist. Father was the only parent I knew, and even he couldn’t be around all the time. ‘Course I asked him to take me back to my mother. I told him I didn’t care who she was, I didn’t care even if she was poor and alone, I still wanted her. And he told me that she was the best woman he’d ever known, but he couldn’t take me to her, and one day I’d understand.’ He lets out another short laugh. ‘That was when I was six. Fifteen years later, and now Father’s gone too and I still don’t understand any more than I did back then.’

‘Gods,’ breathes Robb after a few moments. ‘I love him, truly I do, but sometimes he makes – made – me so damn angry.’

Jon doesn’t miss the slip up or its correction, and the past tense feels like a knife in his heart. ‘I don’t know what to feel anymore,’ he admits. ‘Part of me keeps thinking he probably had a really good reason not to tell me, and another part of me thinks he should have fucking told me anyway. I mean, fuck, Robb, I was _six_ , and I didn’t see it then, but how fucked up is it for a six-year-old to feel like he’d be better off with a woman he doesn’t know than with a father and siblings who love him?’

A pronounced silence follows his words, and not for the first time Jon regrets ever bringing this up to begin with. It’s no secret that Robb’s had it much easier than Jon has even though they’ve more or less had the same upbringing – but Robb’s had a mother and a father and the status that being the firstborn of a powerful family grants him, while all Jon had was a guilt-ridden father and the stigma of being someone’s shameful secret. And even though it’s never been a problem discussing it with Robb, because Robb is one of the only people who has never treated Jon any differently because of his birth status or motherlessness, today Jon feels like maybe he’s pushing his luck. After everything that’s happened so far, maybe this could be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

So when Robb takes one hand off the steering wheel to reach out and briefly squeeze Jon’s knee, Jon can’t help but be taken aback. A moment later his brain processes the action, and sudden warmth and affection for his brother floods through him, riddled with just a little guilt. He decides to tackle the guilt first.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters, looking at Robb’s profile silhouetted in the setting sun. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘Don’t,’ Robb interrupts. ‘Jon, none of this is your fault, okay? You were just a kid. I’m not going to get into the blame game now, there’s no fucking point when all’s said and done, but _you need to know that it was not your fault_. Understand?’

Jon exhales slowly through his nose. ‘Okay,’ is all he says. ‘Yeah, okay.’

‘Not the response I was looking for, but it’s a start,’ sighs Robb. ‘Come on now, we’re almost there. Let’s get this party started.’

‘Some party,’ mutters Jon, but, inexplicably, he’s smiling a little.

Getting into the brothel is a lot easier than they’d expected. Jon thought that their attire would have marked them as suspicious – they’re dressed all in black and carrying heavy duffels – but the guards don’t give them a second look. They’ve probably seen weirder, he muses. To them Jon and Robb just look like regular blokes who’re probably carrying BDSM paraphernalia.

‘Nervous?’ Jon says, once they’re in the lift.

Robb nods. ‘A bit.’

‘Me too,’ says Jon.

They share a look, and then just nod at each other before setting their bags on the floor and getting their shit ready. ‘Masks,’ Robb says when they’re done.

‘Yeah,’ says Jon, and they cover their faces. He slings a length of rope around his shoulders and hands another one over to Robb, who just sighs.

‘You and your fucking rope.’

He takes it, though, before handing Jon two flashlights, and then interlacing his fingers to give Jon a boost. Jon manages to get through the trapdoor in the roof of the lift, lifting himself up and out before leaning back down to help Robb up. It takes them a second to locate an air vent opening, and, minutes later, they’re in.

‘Told you there’d be a vent,’ Robb whispers.

‘Just like on the telly,’ Jon mutters.

It’s a tight, cramped space, and there is barely any visibility even with the help of the flashlights. Jon’s smaller so he goes first, Robb after him, cursing every time he hits his head on the top of the vent. ‘Fucking Baelish,’ he mutters. ‘You’d think, all that money he charges just to be in here, he’d use it to clean the _fuckin_ air vents. Cheap motherfucker.’

‘Ugh, be _quiet_ ,’ hisses Jon. Robb’s gonna get them discovered if he keeps his bitching up.

They come to a T-junction and Jon pauses for a moment, causing Robb to crawl face-first into his arse. ‘Fucking—Robb!’

‘Give me some warning, then,’ snaps Robb. ‘Not like I _wanna_ put my face in your arse.’

‘Be quiet,’ repeats Jon irritably. ‘Let me try to listen and find out where they are.’

Robb scoffs, but remains silent. Jon listens carefully for a moment, before following the sound of faint murmuring to his left. ‘C’mon,’ he whispers to Robb, who begins crawling again, this time keeping a safe distance from Jon’s rear.

They crawl in this manner for a few minutes, but to Jon’s suspicion the sound of voices grows fainter instead of stronger. He stops again in the middle of the vent, and feels a _thump_ as Robb comes into contact with his feet.

‘Fuck’s sake, Jon—’

‘I can’t hear anything,’ Jon says. ‘I think we should head back.’

‘Fucking perfect,’ hisses Robb. ‘And how do you propose we do that, idiot?’

‘Make some space, let me get past you,’ Jon says, trying to turn himself around.

‘Are you fucking serious,’ says Robb incredulously. ‘It’s a tight fit as it is, and I’m sweating my arse dragging your fucking rope around—’

‘Will you quit complaining, this is _serious_ —’

‘Don’t fuckin tell me what to do, in case you haven’t noticed it’s sort of a small fuckin space, and hot as all fuck—’

‘Gods, Robb, just shut up and let me get past—’

Robb lashes out abruptly, hitting Jon’s back. ‘Fuckin hell, Jon—’

‘Are you a literal fucking _child_?’ hisses Jon even as he retaliates, shoving at Robb’s shoulder.

‘Look who’s fucking talking—’ Robb grabs his hair and pulls.

‘Are you fucking _serious_ —’ Jon plants his hand on Robb’s face and shoves him off.

And from there it devolves into a literal fistfight, both of them hitting at each other – not enough to hurt, but more than enough to convey displeasure – too busy to give a damn about the noise they’re making. Robb’s cursing loudly and creatively and Jon’s hissing insults too, both of them momentarily forgetting where they are and what they’re supposed to be doing.

The thing about these buildings is, they’re fucking _ancient_. Baelish hasn’t updated anything in literal years, and it’s already clear from the state of the vents that he doesn’t give a shit about them. As a result, the vents are old, the metal corroded in places, barely strong enough for one person, let alone two grown adults squabbling like children.

There is an ominous _creak_. Both Jon and Robb freeze, limbs and ropes tangled up with each other.

‘Oh, fuck,’ says Robb.

‘Shit,’ says Jon.

The vent falls apart, and both of them fall through the plaster ceiling just under it. The ropes, previously loosely draped around them, spring taut, and they both end up dangling upside down from the ceiling, back-to-back as they slowly revolve.

There are six Gold Cloaks in the room, and Jon knows these are the people they’re here for. There is a moment of silence as the stunned Cloaks regard Jon and Robb, and then a second later one of them whips out a gun.

He’s fast, there’s that; but Jon and Robb are faster, and heavily armed. Simultaneously they pull their guns out of their coats and begin firing, their job made easier by the fact that they’re still rotating in circles. The gunshots are deafening, but Jon barely registers them – he can feel his pulse hammering in his ears, adrenaline singing in his veins, and it overwhelms all of his senses. His brother is a line of warmth at his back, and Jon doesn’t think, not for a single moment, about how horribly wrong this could all go.

Then Robb reaches up to saw through the rope with a knife, and both of them come crashing to the floor in front of the last remaining man, the only one who is not dressed as a Cloak. The man frantically reaches for his gun, but Robb’s quicker, both his guns trained on him before he can do more than twitch his fingers. ‘Don’t even think about it, motherfucker,’ growls Robb. ‘Hands up.’

‘Who – who are you?’ the man asks as he obeys, looking between both of them with abject fear written on his face. Jon knows they probably present a frightening sight – two men dressed identically, faces covered in masks, toting guns like old-school vigilantes.

‘Never mind who we are,’ Robb says, as Jon aims his guns at the man too. ‘What’s important is who _you_ are.’

‘That’s Janos Slynt,’ Jon says before the man can speak. He narrows his eyes. ‘What the fuck’re you doing here? Weren’t you assigned to the Watch?’

‘Answer him,’ Robb snarls when there’s no immediate reply.

Slynt eyes Robb’s gun warily. ‘Tywin Lannister sent me here,’ he says in the end, not taking his eyes off the weapons. ‘On his personal business.’

‘What business?’ demands Jon. His heart is beating too fast to be comfortable, and he just _knows_ this is about their father.

‘He wants to keep an eye on the Watch,’ Slynt says, and Jon frowns. That’s not what he was expecting.

‘Why?’

‘To make sure they don’t find out too much,’ Slynt replies. ‘About Stark’s death.’

Jon’s heart stutters. So it _is_ about their father. Beside him, Robb tenses, too small to be perceptible to anyone but Jon.

‘What does Tywin Lannister have to do with that?’ Jon asks.

‘I’m not sure,’ admits Slynt. ‘He just doesn’t want it investigated too much, that’s all I know. Who the hell are you people, though? Why are you doing this?’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ says Robb roughly. There is an edge to his tone that Jon knows wasn’t there before. ‘You don’t get to ask the questions around here, shitface.’

Slynt looks between them nervously. ‘Are you going to kill me?’

‘Fuck yeah we are,’ Jon tells him, and moves, positioning himself behind Slynt. Robb follows a second later, keeping his gun aimed at Slynt, and his eyes too.

‘No, please,’ says Slynt, and Jon has to suppress a sigh. Here goes with the fucking begging. ‘Please, don’t kill me, I’ll do anything, I’ll tell you everything I know—’

‘You already did, and we’re very grateful,’ says Robb sarcastically. ‘Shut up now, grovelling won’t make us spare your worthless life, you piece of shit.’ He lowers his left hand and raises his right, the muzzle of his gun pressed to Slynt’s head. With his left hand he takes his mask off.

Slynt stills, and then goes even quieter when Jon puts his own gun to the other side of his head, taking his own mask off. ‘Dunno if anyone’s ever told you this before,’ he says, voice as cold as the ice he belongs to, ‘but the North remembers, you piece of shit.’

‘No one ever told you the second part of the saying, I bet,’ Robb adds.

‘Please,’ says Slynt wetly. He sounds like he might be crying.

‘The North comes for your fucking arse,’ Robb goes on, not paying any attention to the blubbering.

Jon frowns. ‘I didn’t know that bit.’

‘I just came up with it,’ Robb informs him. ‘Come on, Jon. Let’s do this.’

‘I’ll tell you _anything_ ,’ Slynt cries.

They ignore him, cocking their guns.

‘ _Please_!’

‘For Dad,’ mutters Robb.

‘For Dad,’ whispers Jon.

They shoot.

Slynt crumples to the ground. There are large craters where his eyes should be.

‘Fuck,’ says Robb, shaking his arm out. ‘That’s fucking disgusting.’

Jon snorts. ‘What were you expecting?’

His brother shrugs. ‘Dunno. Sort of weird, killing him like this.’

‘He deserved a lot worse,’ says Jon.

‘True,’ says Robb. He puts his gun away, reaches inside his coat, and then deposits a pile of stones into Jon’s waiting hands. ‘Let’s finish this up, then.’

Together they arrange every corpse in the room in the way of the Seven, with their arms folded over their chests and their eyes closed. The stones Robb gave him have eyes painted on them; Jon carefully places them over the eyes of the corpses, the way it’s done in the Faith of the Seven.

They leave Slynt for last. Jon places one stone; Robb places the second. They both step back and survey their work.

‘Not bad at all,’ Robb says.

Jon hums in agreement. ‘Should throw them off the trail,’ he says, gesturing towards the stones. The Starks don’t follow the new customs – they follow the Old Gods, and it’s well-known that they’re one of the only families that do. If the corpses were arranged in the way of the Old Gods, it would have been like putting a giant sign over Winterfell that said ‘WE DID THIS, COME ARREST US.’

‘Hey,’ says Robb, breaking Jon’s train of thought. ‘Jon. Look at that.’

Jon follows his brother’s gaze to an unmarked black bag placed on the counter of the minibar in the corner. ‘What d’you reckon that is, then?’

‘Let’s go see,’ says Robb. Jon follows him to the minibar, and watches as he unzips the bag to reveal stacks of money.

‘Fucking hell,’ he says when it becomes evident that this is no small amount. ‘Just how much was Tywin Lannister paying that arsehole to spy on the Watch?’

‘Clearly a small fortune,’ Robb says. ‘Fuckin look at this, Jon.’ He sniffs one of the stacks experimentally. ‘Brand new, too. I think I fuckin love our new job.’

‘You want to keep those?’ asks Jon, surprised.

Robb nods. ‘Yeah, sure as fuck I do. Not like we can fucking get funding for what we’re planning on doing, right, best just to take what we can get.’

‘Makes sense,’ concedes Jon.

Robb opens his mouth to say something, but stops himself when there’s a knock on the door. He looks at Jon, who looks back, uneasy all over again. Have they been heard? Is it law enforcement at the door? Shit, if it’s the Watch, they’re fucked, totally _fucked_ —

‘Mask,’ whispers Robb. Jon’s not sure how much good it’ll do, but he pulls his mask back over his face anyway.

The knocking continues. Robb nods to Jon, and they leave the money on the counter, quietly making their way to the door with their guns raised. Robb positions himself behind the door, and Jon looks out of the peephole on his way to the other side.

He freezes when he sees who it is. ‘Shit, Robb,’ he whispers urgently. ‘Robb, it’s _Theon_.’

‘What—’

Jon puts his hand on the back of Robb’s neck and drags him closer. ‘Look.’

Robb does, and then lets out a low whistle. ‘Fuck. He’s probably here on a job.’

‘To kill them?’

‘Why else?’

‘Fuck.’

‘Hey,’ Robb says suddenly. ‘Let’s fuck with him.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s fuck with him,’ Robb repeats. ‘Come on, Jon! It’ll be fucking hilarious.’

Jon grins. ‘Right, okay, then.’

They take their positions again, on either side of the door, and both share a look before Jon pulls open the door and Robb surges forward to grab Theon by the hair, pulling him into the room with a shout. Theon yells too, flailing. ‘What the FUCK—’

‘Shut up!’ shouts Robb, grabbing him by the shirt and pushing him down. ‘Stay down.’

‘Don’t shoot me, fuck, don’t fucking shoot me!’ Theon yells, scrambling away from their guns.

‘Stop fucking _squirming_!’ screams Jon.

‘We’re on the same side, don’t fucking shoot me!’ Theon roars, and in the next moment both Robb and Jon have him pinned to the ground, his hands by his head in the universal gesture of capitulation. ‘I’m on your side, fuck, Euron must’ve sent me as backup!’

‘Where’s your gun?’ demands Robb, his own extremely close to Theon’s face.

‘It’s right here—’

Jon follows his gaze, and pulls it out of his pocket. It’s a tiny, pathetic little thing, and when Jon opens the chamber, he can’t help the loud, vehement curse that escapes him. ‘Fucking _fuck_ —!’

‘What is it?’ Robb asks.

‘There’s just three fucking bullets in this,’ Jon says. ‘Just three.’

‘So?’ says Robb.

‘There are six bodies,’ Jon says.

‘What?’ Theon stops squirming for a second. ‘Euron told me there were only gonna be two fuckin Gold Cloaks!’ He looks around a little. ‘You two sure did a good fuckin job on them, though.’

‘Shut up,’ Robb says roughly. ‘What do we do about him?’

Jon regards Theon for a moment. ‘Get rid of him,’ he says flatly, knowing Robb will go along.

‘Okay,’ says Robb casually, and presses his gun to the soft underside of Theon’s jaw.

‘Come on, man, what the fuck!’ screams Theon. ‘We’re on the same fucking side, what the fuck!’

Jon grins. ‘Fucking hell,’ he says, taking off his mask.

‘Look at you!’ laughs Robb, withdrawing the gun and removing his mask too. Theon freezes when he sees them, staring at them with confusion written all over his face.

‘What the _fuck_?’ he repeats.

Jon claps him on the shoulder as he stands. ‘Fucking got you, didn’t we?’ he laughs.

‘Shoulda seen the look on your face,’ adds Robb, standing too and following Jon back to the minibar.

Theon gets to his feet slowly, still staring at the two of them. Then he looks around the room, bewildered as all hell. ‘What the fuck,’ he says faintly. ‘What the actual fucking fuck?’

‘Fucking idiot,’ grins Robb.

‘What the fucking fuck?’ roars Theon, scrambling towards both of them. ‘How the fucking fuck did you two fucking fucks fucking do this— _fuck_!’

‘Well,’ says Jon. ‘Definitely a good lesson on the versatility of the word fuck.’

Robb bursts out laughing. ‘Fucking amazing.’

‘Come on,’ Jon says, clapping Theon on the back when he joins them. ‘You know it was fucking hilarious.’

‘Fuck you,’ spits Theon, shoving Jon’s hand off. ‘Fucking _bastard_.’

‘Watch it,’ says Robb, a warning clear in his tone.

‘Robb,’ begins Jon. ‘It’s fine—’ It is, he’s heard this and so much worse from Theon, but Robb’s not having any of it.

‘I hear that word in your mouth again, I’ll knock all your fucking teeth out,’ he threatens. ‘You fucking understand me? You don’t get to say that to him, _ever_ , we clear?’

‘Fucking hell, Robb, calm down,’ snaps Theon. ‘I’ll say whatever I want to him—’

‘Like fucking hell you will,’ snarls Robb.

‘Shut up,’ says Jon. ‘Both of you.’ He nods towards the money. ‘Let’s focus on this, okay? Let’s get out of here, and _then_ we can get all up in each other’s faces.’

Theon backs down, mulish. Robb looks like he wants to protest, but opts for silence when Jon puts a hand on his arm. ‘Thank you,’ he says softly. ‘But it’s okay. Honestly.’

‘No it’s not,’ Robb says fiercely, covering Jon’s gloved hand with his own and giving it a strong squeeze before letting go. ‘It’s fucking _not_.’

Jon just smiles at him. ‘Let’s just _go_ ,’ he murmurs.

And on their way out, he pretends he doesn’t know that Robb’s deliberately inserted himself between his brother and Theon, and he pretends he doesn’t see Robb glaring at Theon. But it does make him feel a bit calmer, warming him up from the inside out, because even if he loses everything else at least he still has Robb by his side, unwavering in his loyalty and unconditional in his love. He figures as long as he’s got Robb, he’ll deal with anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are very much appreciated!!
> 
> love,  
> remy x


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